


Escape My Own Mind

by Shadow15



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depression, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potential Agents of SHIELD Season One Spoilers, Stockholm Syndrome, protective Brock Rumlow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-05-12 22:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 130,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19238266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow15/pseuds/Shadow15
Summary: Brock figures it has to do with having worked with the asset for twenty years, because he sure as hell isn't the kind of guy who is soft and caring. Just ask his subordinates within STRIKE; most of them hated his guts. But for some reason, Hydra's deadliest weapon had taken a liking to him long ago, apparently enough of a liking that Hydra never could extinguish it even with wipes.Brock doesn't know how he ever ended up in this situation, but stealing the Winter Soldier from Hydra and running away with him wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done. The only thing that even came close to comparing his stupidity to was letting Steve Rogers on to the fact that his precious Bucky Barnes wasn't dead and followed Brock around like a lost puppy, because honestly, Brock wasn't sure if he should fear Hydra or Captain Rogers more.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mission went as planned, sir. No casualties; target eliminated and intel stolen. The asset showed no malfunction.” Brock rarely made eye contact with Pierce when he gave mission reports. It was easier to submit; to tell Pierce what he wanted to know and hopefully be dismissed quickly. Pierce had a thing for being more of a dick than usual if he thought his authority was being challenged.

“Good,” Pierce purred. Brock hated the open display of creepiness his boss never cared to hide in the safety of their bases; Brock always left with a sick feeling in his stomach after being privy to it. “Your team’s performance?”

“Up to par, sir. Nothing of concern to report.”

“Very good. Have the intel delivered to my desk.” It was the closest thing to a dismissal one usually received from Pierce whenever a mission went well. Pierce was good at keeping up a polite façade – the bloody politician in him, Brock guessed – and unless the mission had been compromised and fucked up royally, there wasn’t usually any grilling of Hydra members. Brock gave a nod and turned around to leave. He’d barely made it three steps out of the breakroom before Pierce was calling out to him again. “Oh, and ensure your men are adequately rewarded for a job so well done. Knowing the team you took out, I am confident they are already indulging.”

Brock hoped his full-body shiver wasn’t visible, but Pierce was a sharp man; Brock didn’t have much hope it would have gone unnoticed. He nodded again, not trusting himself to speak; all he could do was leave and make his way to one of the interrogation rooms on the other side of the base, hoping he could get there in time before his team decided to go ahead and reward themselves without his permission. It happened a lot. Nothing Brock had done had been able to change matters.

The cold, dark corridor would have been foreboding in its own right had Brock not long-since been desensitised to it from his line of work. The jeers and laughter bouncing off the walls that gave an almost damp impression didn’t help matters much. Not when he already knew what to expect. He grit his teeth and furrowed his eyebrows as he kicked open the door to the last room in the hallway, not even trying to hold back his anger towards his team.

“What the fuck?!” Brock’s eyes travelled around the room, taking in every little detail until he forced his gaze to stop on his second-in-command so he didn’t have to see what the others had on the ground. “You bastards are fuckin’ sick! I’ve told you about this shit, Rollins!”

Jack, ever the quiet one, looked completely unaffected as he met Brock’s angry glare with a lazy, almost bored one of his own. He shrugged, like their subordinates _didn’t_ have a man naked and bleeding right next to them. “I’m one man, Rumlow.”

“Fuckin’ coward,” Brock hissed under his breath before he tore his gaze from Jack and turned to his men instead. His snarl was deadly, commanding respect and compliance. “I’ve told you fucks again and again! Never listen, ya fuckin’ sick, dirty bastards! Get your dick out of his ass, Stiller! That shit’s nasty!”

There were groans of annoyance from around the room. One of the newer recruits made themselves known as he yelled, “Pierce doesn’t care if we fuck the asset, Rumlow! Shut up and let us have our fun with it!”

“I’ve said _nothin’_ under the waist!” Brock shouted back. “You wanna fuck with him, you keep that shit _above_ his waist! Next person who touches his ass is gettin’ a fuckin’ bullet between their eyes!”

Someone grabbed the asset by his long hair and yanked his head to their groin with so much force, Brock was pretty sure his neck would have been broken had this been anyone _but_ Hydra’s best asset. He growled, watching the Soldier’s mouth forced open, only for someone to shove their dick inside and bury the asset’s nose in their black curls of pubic hair. There was no time for the asset to adjust to the intrusion; a steady pace was started hastily, and it was no wonder Brock would see the Soldier’s nostrils flaring angrily with every thrust as he struggled to breath.

Brock’s eyes wandered over the Soldier’s body properly for the first time. Clearly the men had been going at it for a while; the Soldier’s body was dirtied by sticky strings of white all over his back, in his hair, and a little on his stomach, as if whoever had left it there had quickly found somewhere else to finish. The thick white strings mixed with saliva that was still dribbling out of the Soldier’s mouth and down his chin told Brock that the place it had been finished in was the asset’s mouth.

Brock sneered angrily.

“Why the fuck didn’t you step in when they decided to stick it up his ass?” Brock snarled at Jack, his eyes focusing now on the way semen dripped from the Soldier’s hole and down his thighs.

“Because they are _your_ orders and not mine,” Jack replied quietly.

“I outrank you, fucker. Your orders mean shit when I’ve already set ‘em.” Brock was glad the Soldier had his back to them; the last thing he wanted was to see the blank slate on the asset’s face as he let himself be passed around and used like some sort of sick party favour. “Next time, fuckin’ stop them from usin’ him like a two-dollar hooker.”

Jack’s eyes met Brock’s again, but he said nothing; he simply turned back to the action, the corners of his lips tugging upwards when someone took their stun baton and smacked the asset across with the face with it so hard, his head snapped to the side.

“Oi! Fucker!” Brock stomped forward and took the baton from the assaulter so he could return the favour. “Don’t hit him when he’s done nothing wrong, asshole!”

There was more protesting around the room, cries of how they liked their reward _much_ better when their commanding officer was anyone _but_ Brock and they could do whatever they wanted to the asset without being screamed at for it. Brock yelled back, his anger spurred by the way the Soldier kept his gaze locked firmly on him, trust settled in his eyes and his expression firm, as if he felt resolve at the ‘protection’ Brock’s presence provided.

It was wrong, though. Brock was anything _but_ protection. If he was, the Soldier wouldn’t be his team’s personal whore every damn time they took him out of the fridge for a mission. Hell, Brock wouldn’t have been one of the ones who’d _engaged_ in things similar to this with him, though he knew the asset wouldn’t remember – at least, not his face specifically. Brock was pretty sure Hydra kept most of the memories intact to remind him of his place.

Brock stepped back to stand with Jack again, ignoring the way the other man’s pants bulged with obvious arousal. But Brock could never get hard during these ‘rewards’. Brock was a fucked up guy – he had to be to have survived in Hydra for as long as he had – but _this…_ This was so fucked up, even for him.

The worst part of it all was just how long these sessions went on for. Long enough for Brock to have pulled up a chair at the desk and gotten through three-quarters of the paperwork involved for the mission. The presence in the room had ever-so-slowly died down until there was no one left but Brock and the asset.

Brock looked up from his paperwork, pleased that he no longer had to supervise and keep his men in line. It was fucked what Pierce allowed happen to the asset. The worst part was, he tried his best to look out for the Soldier, but he had no power over the other teams allowed to make use of the asset. He could only control his own units – and unfortunately, even then, he couldn’t do as much as he wanted to.

“Hey.” Brock abandoned his paperwork in favour of standing. Even Jack was gone, sated and uninterested in the ending of the events. There was no one around except for them, and Brock relaxed at the knowledge. “Winter.”

A flicker of recognition crossed the Soldier’s features. It was a name no one else used for him – only Brock, and only when they were very, _very_ alone. But still, he didn’t move; he just laid on the cold cement ground, a faraway expression on his face.

“Winter.” Brock was standing over the asset now, peering down with concern in his features. He hated when it came to this, but sometimes, the asset locked himself too far away in his head to come back out so easily. “Soldat. Mission report.”

More recognition on the Soldier’s face. A good sign.

“Soldat. Mission report.”

The asset finally broke out and back into reality. His eyes blinked confusedly, his face scrunched up, as he almost whispered, “Functioning.”

Brock nodded. He knelt down and put his hand on the Soldier’s shoulder in what he hoped was comfort. Every touch he gave so soon after these… events always had Brock worried for how the asset would perceive them. “Stand, Soldat.”

The Soldier forced himself to his feet shakily. His legs quivered beneath his solid weight, and Brock wondered how long he was going to be able to keep himself upright for. Russian slipped through his lips, but Brock didn’t know enough of the language to have a proper grasp on what the asset was saying. He wasn’t even sure if the sentence was made entirely of Russian; there was a hint of…

What the hell, was there a little bit of Romanian in there, too?

“You’re not in your right mind, Winter,” Brock murmured. He took the Soldier by the elbow of his right arm – his _flesh_ arm; even _he_ wasn’t brave enough to touch the metal one lest his neck be snapped in the blink of an eye. “C’mon; I’ll get ya cleaned up.”

The Soldier – Winter, Brock had mostly thought of him as for the twenty years he’d been the asset’s handler – wouldn’t have continued walking if he hadn’t been ordered to. Hell, the only reason his legs hadn’t buckled out from under him was because he knew he would be beaten if they did. Perhaps not by Brock himself, but by _someone_.

Brock hoped Winter didn’t think _he’d_ beat him for something like that – especially given the circumstances. Brock had personally known some of the other handlers over the years, and Brock hoped Winter didn’t associate him with _them_.

“I’m a decent guy,” Brock said out loud, more so to himself than to anyone else. “I’m not _that_ bad, am I?”

No response came, not that Brock should have expected any.

The showers were quite the journey away. It wouldn’t have been as troublesome as it was if Winter hadn’t been in the hands of the STRIKE team without Brock’s supervision for the near-hour it had taken him to organise everything post-mission. But of course, having a naked and _very_ soiled Winter Soldier in tow throughout the Hydra base wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time.

But finally, the shower room was in sight, and there was nobody inside.

Brock grabbed Winter’s flesh elbow again. “C’mon. It’ll just be us.”

Winter didn’t protest as he followed Brock inside. Winter _wouldn’t_ protest; the Soviets had beaten that out of him decades ago. He stood motionless by Brock’s side as his handler undressed himself, and once he was led beneath the hot water spewing from the showerhead, he obeyed.

Brock always handled the aftercare of these events. At least, the ones that his men had been directly involved in. He couldn’t handle every event; he wasn’t always present to do so. But when he _was_ around, he took it upon himself to ensure that Winter was safe and well afterwards.

Brock had no complaints about it, except maybe that he had to touch the bodily fluids of other men. But other than that, standing under the warm stream with Winter beside him…

Brock was content in ways he hadn’t been in a long time.

Washing Winter’s hair was Brock’s favourite part. Winter was touch-starved, so much so that every time Brock scrubbed the shampoo into his long locks, Winter’s eyes would close and he would practically be _purring_ as he pressed into and nuzzled against the warm hands calloused from years of military servitude.

“You like that?” A weary smile was on Brock’s face as he watched the way Winter rubbed the side of his head into Brock’s palm. It wasn’t a forced, _fake_ smile he had long-since perfected. It was genuine, and it was for a fucking _weapon_ that could tear him to pieces in a split second if he so much as _looked_ at Winter wrong.

Brock’s self-preservation always seemed to fail whenever he was alone with Winter.

“Head back. Gotta wash the shampoo out.” It was a soft, gentle tone that no one except Winter heard from Brock. He’d be damned if he let anyone overhear him being so tender, but for now while it was just the two of them, he was blissfully relaxed. 

Winter’s eyes never left Brock’s form. They stayed focused on Brock’s face, unflinching and never faltering. The trust that Brock had seen earlier was still there, along with a contentedness that no other Hydra member was privy to him being capable of feeling, except for maybe Isaac Murphy, but Brock could understand that; the most dangerous thing about Isaac was that if one wasn’t careful, he’d have them cornered for an hour to show them photos of his cats.

Winter always seemed to let his guard down when he was alone with Brock. At least, for a guy who never made a sound unless he was ordered to, Brock assumed that was what it was when Winter would slump forward and rest his head on Brock’s shoulder, like a tired child falling asleep in their mother’s arms.

Brock put one hand on Winter’s hip and used the other hand to thread his fingers gently through the brown tangles on top of his head. Winter was purring again, nuzzling his face against Brock’s neck.

Brock closed his eyes, too. “Hey. Wanna come home with me?”

Winter gave no response, made no acknowledgement that he’d even heard the words. Regardless, he smiled and rested his cheek on top of Winter’s head. He was relaxed; he just wished he didn’t have to give Winter back to Hydra all the time.

***

The thing about Pierce was that, if a subordinate presented themself to be creepy enough, Pierce would don an unnerving grin and give them what they asked for. It was as if Pierce got off on thinking Hydra was as fucked up as _he_ was.

But Brock didn’t care enough to give it too much thought; all he had to do was ask for permission to take the asset home for… _recreational_ use, and Pierce’s eyes glinted as he sneered and nodded.

Brock couldn’t have gotten out of there fast enough; he’d collected Winter, taken him to his car, and sped away to get home as quickly as he could; Brock hated being within a one-hundred mile radius of Pierce at all times, and getting away from him was almost as much of a highlight as seeing Winter.

Almost.

Winter was a quiet passenger. Most of the time anyway. There were the odd occasions where his programming started to fail when out in the field, and the unit members would panic and scurry about getting the agitated, snarling asset into his specially-made car seat to restrain him before someone had their jaw ripped off.

It had happened before; they obviously didn’t want a repeat of that incident.

But most of the time, Winter would just sit and stare silently, as if he were nothing more than a hyper-realistic statue someone had erected in the back of the van.

Brock looked over at him as he pulled the car off the freeway. He couldn’t help but smile, pleased to have Winter still beside him. It was strange to think of something so dangerous being so much of a soothing point, but hey. It was what it was.

“You recognise anythin’?” Brock asked. He knew it was stupid; Winter wouldn’t. Winter never saw anything but death. No one else was brave enough – or stupid. Really, _really_ stupid – to drive the asset around sightseeing.

Winter shook his head. His eyes stayed focused on his lap, like an obedient dog knowing that if it just stayed still long enough, its master would eventually tell it to eat the treat that had been balanced on its nose.

Sometimes, Brock _really_ hated Hydra.

“You can look around, you know. You don’t gotta stare at your lap the entire way.”

It took a few moments, but Winter slowly lifted his head to give Brock his usual dead-eye look. His voice was rough, hoarse from disuse. “What is my mission?”

“Uh.” Shit. Sometimes Brock forgot that Hydra took everything out of Winter’s mind that wasn’t of use to them. The only thing that _was_ of use to Hydra was using Winter as their attack dog. Winter didn’t know anything _but_ missions – of _course_ he wasn’t going to be comfortable sitting in a car with no idea what was expected of him. “…”

Winter was getting fidgety. Nervousness was something Hydra – including Brock – overlooked the asset to be capable of. Winter was so good at remaining a blank state, showing no emotions, speaking only within mission parameters, it was hard to remember that beneath the emptiness, even _Winter_ felt anxiety when things were unclear to him.

“Your mission?” Brock was trying to think fast. It hadn’t really dawned on him just how dangerous this was until Winter had started to get unsettled; should he turn the car around and go straight back to Hydra to put Winter in his containment cell? “Um, uh… Just… You’re guarding me tonight. That’s your mission; protecting me from danger.”

Winter’s spine straightened immediately at those words, and he stopped fidgeting. It was as if those words had given him a new sense of purpose. Brock hated to think about how they probably _did_.

“Alright. Good.” Brock relaxed also, pleased that the danger had been averted. “Good boy. Just… Just listen to the radio. Alright? We’re almost home.”

Brock shouldn’t have been surprised that Winter took the suggestion as a literal command. Oh well; it didn’t matter too much; at least it was something to keep Winter busy with.

The nervousness made a return when Brock pulled his car into the underground garage of his apartment complex and turned the engine off. He looked at Winter again, frowning. “What’s wrong, Wints?”

“…” Winter shook his head. His expression was almost flawlessly blank, but Brock was still familiar with the nervousness in his eyes.

“It’s just my apartment. Your mission is to protect me, remember? That’s all.” Brock couldn’t help but feel there was something he was missing to Winter’s behaviour. They’d been to many safe houses during missions, and Winter had never really acted out of the ordinary there. It was possible that Winter had been out of cryofreeze for too long and his brain was starting to repair itself – but Brock didn’t think that was the case; this seemed anxiety driven because he’d _learnt_ to feel anxiety about it. “Hey, who else brings you to their house when you aren’t on the field?”

Winter stared into Brock’s eyes, but he didn’t respond. Brock knew him well enough to know that he needed the permission _to_ respond.

“Speak, Soldat. Who else brings you to their house?”

Winter licked his lips before he mumbled, “Pierce.”

Brock felt sick at the information. That made sense; of _course_ that creep thought along the same lines as Brock did. God, he felt so _sick_ …

“It’s okay.” Brock could see the mounting fear in the asset’s eyes. He shook his head. “It’s okay; you did nothing wrong. Nothing wrong. Good boy, Winter. Good.”

Winter relaxed at the praise now. He let out a heavy sigh as he shook memories of one of his old handlers from his mind, trying his best to recognise that Brock wasn’t like that handler, and while that handler may have enjoyed beating him for no reason, Brock didn’t. Brock _protected_ him, and that was why Winter _trusted_ him.

Winter trusted Brock enough to have followed him into the building, past the doorman, and up the stairs to the apartment door. His nervousness was still there, lingering in the back of his mind, but he had control over it. Like Brock was different to that past handler, Brock was also different from Pierce.

“Righty, here we are.” Brock unlocked the front door and reached inside to turn the lights on. He did a quick sweep of the kitchen to check for intruders – military habits, reinforced by the danger Hydra also provided; the habit would never die – before he turned back to Winter. He double checked to make sure Winter had entered behind him before he shut the door and deadbolted it. Survival instincts die hard, but what did Winter standing in his apartment say about his survival instincts? “Make yourself at home.”

Winter just stood and stared. It was different interacting with him outside of Hydra, where Winter knew exactly what to anticipate, and Brock had to keep up appearances and do his best to remain indifferent to the asset.

Here and now, Brock’s guard was down so much, he probably would be oblivious to the asset advancing on him in a murderous stroll.

“Right.” Brock took Winter’s flesh elbow once again to lead him to the small living room. He pushed him down onto the sofa as he said, “You stay here. I’m hungry. I’m gonna make some food.”

Winter stayed where he had been put, but he still turned around to stare over the back of the sofa and watch Brock move around in the kitchen. He couldn’t tear his gaze from his handler, and Brock tried to pretend he couldn’t notice the damned _trust_ still in his eyes. Brock didn’t deserve that emotion. Brock didn’t deserve a lot of things, but here they were.

“’Kay…” Brock was moving items about in the kitchen. Winter didn’t have names for them; he had no memory of ever being in a kitchen in the first place – at least, a _real_ kitchen; safe houses tended to be nothing more than ramshackle boxes. “Ya hungry? Hydra don’t feed you enough; you need way more than the shit they pump into ya through the IVs…”

Still, Winter never tore his eyes away from Brock. Curiosity filled his features as he watched Brock messing about. He stayed put, but when Brock returned to sit next to him on the sofa and pass him a plastic cup with a straw in it, his eyes were filled with wonder, amazement, as if he was convinced Brock hung the stars in the sky.

Knowing the way the rest of Hydra treated Winter, Winter probably _did_ think that of his handler.

“Drink that. But drink it _slow_.” Brock nodded his head at the cup. “Don’t wanna mess up your stomach. Fuckin’ Soviets…”

Winter _was_ curious about what he’d been handed, but he didn’t ask. He sipped at the straw until he got just the tiniest taste on his tongue. He swallowed it, pulling his mouth away from the straw to lick at his lips.

“You like it?” Brock continued when he received a nod in response. “It’s a protein shake. I’ll make ya soup before bed – give you somethin’ other than shitty liquid food for once.”

Winter nodded again. He waited a few minutes before he sipped again, keeping his attention split so he could still carry out his mission of protecting his handler. If anyone were to try and sneak up on their apartment, he would hear them coming and – where was his weapons? He was always provided weapons prior to carrying out his mission.

Winter bowed his head in submission as he murmured, “Permission to ask questions…”

“Speak.”

Winter lifted his head again to look into Brock’s eyes and ask, “Where are my weapons for this mission? Why have I not been provided with any?”

“Uh.” Fucking shit. Brock should have known better than to think he could fool Winter. He had to think fast before Winter got too suspicious; the subtle twitching of his fingers wasn’t good. “I don’t anticipate you to need weapons for this job, Winter; the, umm… It’s sort of a stealth mission – can’t let the neighbours know what’s goin’ on. You understand?”

Winter’s fingers stopped twitching as he gave a nod. “Mission parameters.”

“Don’t leave the apartment for anythin’, and no killin’ unless I tell you to.” Those orders came naturally to Brock; the last thing he needed was for someone to see Winter wandering around his apartment, or for someone to be murdered at his front door.

Speaking of murder at his front door, the way Winter’s body went rigid was familiar, and Brock instinctively reached under his shirt for a handgun as he clicked on to the fact that Winter was picking up somebody’s approach. It could have been as simple as one of his neighbours returning home, or it could have been an enemy trying to sneak in undetected. Either way, he was taking no chances. He turned to face the entrance, and as he did so, he raised one hand into the air to show his palm to Winter. A signal. _Wait for my command_.

Brock crept toward the door with his gun at the ready. Winter was still waiting, ready to pounce like the vicious animal he’d been moulded into the second he was given the order. But when Brock yanked the door open and his shoulders deflated with annoyed cusses, Winter relaxed at seeing Jack on the other side, his hand raised and finger poised to press the doorbell.

“Uh, hey?” Jack cocked a single eyebrow as he eyed the gun pointed at him. “You gonna lower that, or should I be concerned that I never got around to writing a will?”

“Fucker.” Brock clicked his tongue in annoyance as he sheathed the gun. “What do you want? Thought I finally got rid of you for a few hours.”

“Pierce told me to check up on the asset. Said it’s a bad idea for you to be on your own with it in case it attacks.”

“If Pierce was _that_ concerned, he wouldn’t have let me leave with him,” Brock spat. “What you _really_ want, Rollins? I’m busy.”

“You can ring Pierce and ask him yourself.” Jack rolled his eyes. “You going to invite me in, or make me stand out in the cold corridor looking like an idiot?”

“You always look like an idiot; makes no difference standin’ there.” Regardless, Brock stepped back to allow entrance. He shut the door and followed Jack into the living area, ranting about how useless Jack was on a good day, but he quickly shut up when Jack opened his mouth and pointed to Winter.

“You.” Jack’s tone was harsh, authoritative. “Off.”

Winter was off the sofa and sitting on the floorboards in an instant. Brock’s eyes narrowed as he rounded on Jack. “The fuck? He’s _allowed_ on there!”

“It’s not allowed on furniture; rule thirty-two in the asset’s handbook,” Jack reminded. “Surprised you didn’t remember; you studied that thing religiously every day for seven years. It’s not supposed to think it’s one of us so it doesn’t turn and murder us all.”

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what the book says; my apartment!” Brock turned back to Winter. “Soldat! Sit back on the sofa. It’s fine.”

Winter was back on his feet and halfway on the sofa again when Jack all but spat, “Get off!”

“Sit down, Soldat!”

Winter couldn’t help but whimper. His eyes were wide with confusion as his gaze flickered back and forth between his handlers, not knowing who he was supposed to obey and expecting a beating for not being able to follow orders.

“Look, you’re confusin’ him!” Brock snapped. “Soldat! You listen to _me_!”

“You listen to _both_ of us!” Jack argued. “We’re _both_ your handlers!”

“I outrank you, you slimy fucker!” Brock snapped. “He obeys _me_!”

“And all you’re doing is breaking down its programming and dooming us all! Number one rule of the handbook says to not even _acknowledge_ it unless mission-related!”

“Fuck you! You don’t have a problem acknowledgin’ him when you want a place to stick your dick! Get out!”

Winter stared at his feet. He was confused, so very confused. It was true he wasn’t supposed to get on the furniture, but _Brock_ had put him on the sofa, and he _trusted_ Brock. Brock was his _handler_! But then Jack comes, and now he…

Well, Jack must be right; even _Pierce_ would beat him if he went near the furniture.

Brock managed to get Jack to the door. They stood in the corridor, each at the other’s throat. Jack was the one to snarl, “I don’t know why you’re getting all cosy with it, Rumlow; you know what’s going to happen to it when Project Insight goes through. It’s going to be put down like the feral dog it is. It won’t be needed anymore.”

Brock was silent for all of five seconds before he slammed the door shut and redid the deadbolt on it. He went back to Winter’s side, trying not to think about Jack’s words. He put his hand on Winter’s shoulder, feeling the tiniest hint of a tremor beneath his palm. “Hey… You okay?”

Winter didn’t respond. He didn’t even _move_.

“Soldat.” Brock hated that word so much. Fucking stupid Soviet bastards… “Status report.”

Winter’s eyes were still wide as he whispered, “Mal… Malfunction…”

“Yeah, you’re confused.” Brock sighed. “Don’t listen to the fucker; he’s got no idea what he’s talking about.”

Winter’s body was tensed, awaiting the beating he was sure was to come. “…”

“Hey.” Brock squeezed Winter’s shoulder – the flesh shoulder that _wasn’t_ horrifically scarred with metal soldered onto it. “You tired? Let’s get some sleep. Bring your protein shake.”

Winter obeyed. He followed Brock to the bedroom, and as docile as a lamb, he stood patiently and allowed for Brock to strip him of his tac gear. He watched the gear pile up by his boots at the end of the bed, and while it wasn’t exactly anything new to him, it kind of _was_. There was only one bed in the room, with no rollout mattress in sight. It wouldn’t be the first time Winter was made to sleep on the floor beside the bed, but Brock had never made him do that; he always ensured _something_ soft was available for him to rest upon.

Brock pulled away Winter’s belt and dropped it to the ground before he pulled the fatigues down and waited for Winter to step out of them. He was never surprised to find that every time he undressed Winter, there was never any underwear beneath. Fucking Hydra.

“Okay. Good.” Brock quickly undressed himself next, leaving nothing but his boxers on. He pointed to the bed – the _only_ bed in the room. “Jump in.”

Winter didn’t hesitate, but there was tentativeness as he pulled back the blankets and settled beneath them. His eyes were still locked on Brock, never moving away, even as he joined Winter beneath the blankets.

The light had been turned off, leaving them in a darkness. Winter could still see, but he knew Brock couldn’t. He continued to stare. He couldn’t help but move in closer, closer, close enough that he could press his face in against Brock’s neck and let out a pleased sigh.

Brock said nothing about it, to his own surprise. He simply reached out to put his hand on Winter’s hip and close his eyes.

Brock was almost asleep when Winter’s hesitant voice asked, “Mission parameters…?”

Brock sighed. “Stay here. Don’t move. Close your eyes and sleep.”

“If someone is to enter…?”

“Knock ‘em out. But for now, _sleep_.”

And just like that, Winter’s eyes were closed and he was asleep, thankful to leave behind the world he hated so much.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Cap.”

“Rumlow.”

It wasn’t the first time they’d come across each other at the Triskelion. They’d had missions together in the past, and honestly, Brock’s STRIKE team had always worked flawlessly with Captain Rogers. It was the first time, however, where Brock’s head had been in the clouds when coming across each other.

Captain Rogers must have noticed, and Brock was barely snapped from his stupor when Steve asked, “Long night?”

Brock shrugged, barely conscious of doing so; the screams he had listened to for so long last night were still bouncing around his mind, echoing on an endless loop that made Brock want to punch his hand through the glass window of the elevator they were in.

Steve tried again, sensing something was wrong; while they may not exactly be friends, they weren’t on bad terms, either. “I heard what happened on your last mission. You lost three men. It’s rough; I know.”

Finally, Brock came back to reality as the Captain’s words sunk in. He frowned. Yeah, he’d lost men – good men who had been devoted to Hydra. And _why_ had he lost them? Because the damn asset had gotten confused when the programming broke down due Brock’s oversight. He swallowed thickly. “Thanks, Cap. It was my fault, though. I fucked up as their Commander. I overlooked a situation I shouldn’t have. Got my men killed. …I fucked up _a lot_ there.”

Steve reached out to squeeze Brock’s shoulder. He shook his head. “A bad team leader wouldn’t shoulder the responsibility. Whatever happened, I’m sure you did your best to protect the rest of your team.”

Brock nodded. That much was true; Winter had started rampaging after taking out those men. He’d ignored the enemy team who’d taken the opportunity to flee when Winter had turned around and stomped to the STRIKE team, blade in hand. He’d very nearly taken out two more men, and he probably would have if Brock hadn’t put himself between them and taken the swipe.

Brock’s arm burned with pain now that he was thinking about it again.

“I did.” Brock closed his eyes. “But it wasn’t enough. I still fucked up. I let it get that far.”

If Brock had had more control over his team where the asset was involved, maybe the mission would have gone off without a hitch. Instead, Brock hadn’t pulled up on the jeers and taunts his team had thrown at Winter for the entirety of the twelve-hour drive.

Well, Brock _had_ pulled them up. Honestly, he’d thought they’d stopped when he’d told them to. Apparently they’d taken to kicking and hitting and even pinching Winter when Brock wasn’t paying attention. He hadn’t even realised that they’d sat behind him in the back of the van, pulling Winter’s pants down and doing _something_ to his genitals - not until the techs had demanded to know why they were sore and inflamed.

No fucking wonder Winter had snapped like he had. Brock couldn’t even keep his damn men in line for twelve hours.

If Brock had been a better team leader, he wouldn’t have had to wrestle Winter into the van and strap him down in his car seat to keep the rest of his team safe. If he had been a better team leader, he wouldn’t have had to stand by and watch as Winter was wiped and reset and then thrown back into the freezer.

Brock wouldn’t have failed his men _and_ Winter separately.

The elevator stopped, and the bell chimed. Brock stepped towards the doors. “This is my stop. Talk later, Cap.”

Brock didn’t want to be here. He’d much rather go home and mope about in his bed. He hated losing men. Usually he could hold himself together, but _usually,_ he wasn’t at fault for their deaths.

Brock thought about shooting himself in the leg to try and get some sick leave, but that was before he remembered Pierce would probably just send Winter after him that night if he were to do so; there _was_ no sick leave in Hydra. You either performed or you died.

Brock sighed heavily as he made his way to Pierce’s office. He tried to steel his emotions before he entered, but he mustn’t have done a great job since Pierce took one look at him and raised an eyebrow.

“You look like you’ve been through hell.” Pierce sipped at his wine as the corners of his lips tugged into a smirk. “You’re not still moping about those men, are you?”

“They were my unit, sir.” Brock’s hands clenched into fists by his sides. “They were _good men_ – _my_ men. I worked with Norman for fourteen years.”

“They are replaceable.”

Brock bit his lip. He forced himself to remain calm; the last thing he needed was to piss Pierce off. “The mission, sir. What did you want to see me about?”

“Ah, yes.” Pierce slid a manila folder across the desk in silent instruction for Brock to approach. “Read the details. You’ll be taking our finest asset out to pay a visit to our very own Nick Fury. Make sure you keep it under control this time, Rumlow; Hydra does not take kindly to failure. Especially not _twice_. Perhaps you can personally apologise to your men for getting them killed in the very near future…”

Brock sneered. He shut the folder and tucked it under his arm. “Sir? With all due respect, I control the asset just fine and he –“

“- The closeness you have with that thing is concerning, Rumlow.” Pierce’s eyes narrowed. “You treat it like it has emotions. It doesn’t. It’s a _thing_. You’d do well to remember that.”

“The asset and I work well as a team _because_ of the closeness I have with him, sir,” Brock argued. He didn’t even know _why_ he was risking his life like this. Maybe he was just feeling so shit, deep down he was _hoping_ for Pierce to kill him and put him out of his misery. “He responds to me so well that I need only touch him and he understands my orders. He has never responded to any other handler the way he responds to me, sir. My team’s success rate with the asset is proof enough.”

“You are still replaceable, Rumlow. The asset, not so much. But that won’t matter very soon when Project Insight goes through. The asset will be destroyed the second there is no more use for it, and maybe I will think about putting _you_ down with him, Commander.” Pierce’s eyes were dark, and Brock knew he was _really_ pushing it. “Now leave. Prepare for the mission. The asset is being defrosted as we speak and will be reprogrammed in time for the mission. _Don’t_ disappoint me again, Rumlow.”

“Yes, sir.” With that, Brock turned and left the office, so lost in his own mind, he took no notice of his own team trying to get his attention.

Brock left for the cafeteria, hoping that if he were to drown himself with caffeine, his head would clear. Seeing Captain Rogers there, ordering his own coffee, only made Brock’s head cloud even more, and was probably the cause for the sudden headache that made Brock want to bang his head against the wall.

“Captain.” Brock stepped next to Steve, keeping his eyes trained firmly on the menu behind the counter. He could feel Steve’s smile on him, but he didn’t care; he was too fucking tired for this shit, and he just wanted to go home.

“Rumlow.”

Without even thinking, Brock tore his gaze from the menu to lock eyes with Steve. “Tonight. Eight o’clock. I need to talk to you. Be at your apartment.”

Steve looked taken aback, but he quickly wiped the expression away as he nodded. “Everything alright, Rumlow?”

“It’s splendid.” With that, Brock ignored Steve completely in favour of ordering his own coffee and then going to claim a table for himself in the far back corner, glaring at anyone who tried coming close.

Brock was a fucking idiot. What was he thinking? Pierce would find out, and then he was _fucked_. No one left Hydra. Not unless they were in a body bag.

***

Brock knocked at Steve’s door at exactly eight that night. He was let inside, and he said nothing until he was seated in Steve’s chair, waving away the glass of water he was offered. His eyes were red with exhaustion, his face pale and sickly looking. Steve was worried, Brock could tell, but he didn’t care; Steve was going to have more pressing matters to worry about in a few minutes.

Brock came straight out with it. He didn’t see the point in delaying it. “I work for Hydra, and I need you to help me.”

Steve had Brock pinned to the wall by his throat in the blink of an eye. Their faces were so close together that their breaths mingled. “Why would I help you? I should _kill_ you like the rest of Hydra.”

“Because if you kill me, Hydra wins, Cap,” Brock grunted out from under the hand squeezing off his air supply. “Hydra wins, and _everyone_ is fucked.”

“You joined Hydra willingly; I don’t believe you’re concerned about the end results,” Steve snarled. “If you were, you’d have gotten out. You’d have _escaped_.”

“Not that easy, Cap; no one ever leaves Hydra. Not alive, anyway.” Brock coughed when Steve tightened his grip on his throat. “Easy, big guy… Just wanna… talk…”

“How many men are waiting, Rumlow?” Steve glanced out the window, searching for human presence. “You got Rollins waiting outside my door with the rest of STRIKE?”

Brock shook his head. “Let me breathe… and I’ll tell you everythin’.”

“You have two minutes, Rumlow,” Steve growled as he pulled his hand away and let Brock fall to the ground. “You’d better make it good.”

Brock coughed for a few moments before he rubbed at his throat and frowned up at Steve. He licked his lips before he said, “You heard of Project Insight, Cap? It’s fucked. It’ll wipe out millions. It’s supposed to lead to peace, but it’s… Cap, you can’t let Project Insight go through.”

“Why am I supposed to believe you, Rumlow? You don’t stay with an organisation like _Hydra_ for as long as you have and _not_ want the plans to work. You _deceived_ me, for all this time… We’ve gone out for _drinks_ together! And all this time…  All this time, you’ve been the enemy.”

“’Cause if you don’t believe me, you’re gonna lose a lot more than just your own time,” Brock hissed past his sore throat. “Yeah, I’ve been with Hydra twenty years, Cap, but that shit changes a man! It was cool at the start, but the years drag out, and I just… Cap… Look at me. I came here unarmed. I told you I’m Hydra. If I wanted a fight with you, I’d have at least brought a knife or two…”

“What’s in it for you to tell me this? What do _you_ get out of it?”

“A chance to escape,” Brock hissed. “As I said, there’s no quitting Hydra. Once you’re in, you’re in it for life. But I want _out,_ Cap. I want out, and I want to bring someone with me – get him out of that mess.”

“Rollins?”

Brock shook his head. “They call him the Winter Soldier. No idea what his real name is; they won’t let me read his files. But Hydra – they… Cap… I… You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I help you stop Project Insight, and you let me go with Winter and keep SHIELD off us. You don’t get it, Cap; Hydra wins, and they put Winter down. I can’t let them do that.”

“He’s your friend?”

“He’s my _responsibility_.” Brock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m his handler; I’ve taken care of him for twenty years and I’m _not_ gonna let him go out like that.”

“You’ve killed so many people, yet you want me to believe you _care_ enough about someone to want to protect them. Give me one good reason to trust you,” Steve snarled.

Brock’s lips curled into a sneer. “Because if you don’t, then Hydra sends Winter out tomorrow to kill Nick Fury. What I’ve done in the name of Hydra _used_ to be a reflection of who I was. But it hasn’t been that way in a long time. Not since I’ve seen again and again what they do to Winter… You help me get Winter _away_ from Hydra, I help you stop Project Insight. All I ask in return is the freedom and safety to look after Winter.”

The flickering of emotion in Steve’s eyes told Brock everything he needed to know; he’d won Captain Rogers over – and now all they needed was to work out how they were going to do this.


	3. Chapter 3

“Winter.” Brock cupped Winter’s face, despite the mask and tactical goggles he was donning that made it difficult to do so. His eyes searched through the goggles desperately, trying to make eye contact. “Winter, I need you to listen to me. I need you to forget Pierce’s orders for this mission.”

Winter gave a confused whimper. Beneath the goggles, his eyes widened and darted side-to-side. There was a slight tightening of his shoulders, but he didn’t otherwise react.

“Winter.” Brock shook his head and moved in closer. He was relieved he’d been able to convince Pierce to let him transport Winter on his own; if any other STRIKE member were present to overhear, he’d most definitely have been killed on the spot for betraying Hydra. “This is important. If you follow Pierce’s orders, Hydra is goin’ to _hurt_ you. Okay? Not now… But they will. Hydra will hurt you, so I need you to follow _my_ orders instead. Alright? You trust me, don’t you?”

Winter didn’t hesitate to nod, but the way his body started shaking proved how nervous he was; Brock knew no one else could have ever been so stupid as to try and override Pierce’s orders, so this must have been incredibly confusing for him.

“Okay. Good. Because I need you to trust me right now, Winter.” Brock brushed stray locks of brown out of Winter’s face, hoping desperately that he was going to get through to him. “Do you understand?”

Winter nodded again.

“Okay. Good. Winter, you _cannot_ kill your target today. You _cannot_. I need you to hurt him… But no matter what, you cannot _kill_ him. Do you understand me, Winter?”

A final time, Winter nodded.

“Good.” Brock eyes flickered over Winter’s masked face. He let out a heavy sigh, shifting his palms so that he could slide his thumbs between where the mask and goggles met and rub circles into the flesh beneath. He moved forward, slowly, slowly so as to not make Winter feel as if he was being threatened, and pressed his lips to the material over Winter’s own. “Good. Good Winter. Such a good boy.”

Winter moved closer at those words. His hips pressed up and into Brock’s pelvis, but he settled when Brock took his shoulders and gently pushed him back into place. He whimpered softly as he stared into Brock’s face.

“Not now,” Brock murmured. “I know, I know; it’s the programming. I promise I’ll give you a reward _after_ the mission, okay? Mission first; good behaviour reward after.”

Winter stood and crossed to the other side of the van so he could arm himself with weapons. He heard Brock following, and he allowed his handler to stand behind him and observe; Brock never hurt him by standing behind him, and sometimes he even wrapped his arms around his waist and held him tight.

Brock didn’t do that today, though. Instead, he seemed too jittery, as if he would die if he stayed still too long. Winter turned to look at him over his shoulder and cock his head. For the briefest of moments, Brock wondered if Winter was feeding off his negative emotions.  

“Just…” Brock let out a sigh. “…Just make it look _believable,_ Winter. Rendezvous back here in fifteen minutes.”

With that, Brock opened the back doors of the van and let Winter jump out, menacing as he stalked away to complete his objective.

Brock climbed into the front of the van and chewed at his fingernails as he watched the minutes tick by on his wristwatch; if Winter fucked this up, Captain Rogers would view him as a traitor, and Hydra wouldn’t be all that he had to fear.

Fucking hell, he hoped so much that Winter did this right…

The minutes turned into an hour, and there was still no sign of Winter. Brock couldn’t stop shaking now, terrified to think of what had happened; there were so many things that could have gone wrong, and Brock felt like he could vomit just _thinking_ about it.

“Fuck it.” Brock turned the engine of the van on, and though he knew it was the stupidest thing he could do, he drove towards the location Winter’s target was to be eliminated in. Sure enough, when he got there, the SHIELD SUV was overturned, covered in bullet holes and the shell burned, but despite the police presence and crowd of onlookers, Brock could still see that there was no sign of a body, and not a hint of Winter anywhere nearby.

“Fuck!” Brock smacked his head against the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Captain Rogers may not be coming after Brock, but Hydra certainly would be once they heard about how he had lost the asset on the field.

“Oh, _fuck_!” Brock screamed. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator, the van’s tyres screeching furiously as he started searching desperately for Winter. He couldn’t remember the last time his hands had shaken as violently as they were now as he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Captain Rogers. He waited until his call had been answered before he tried to swallow down his stress and mumble, “Cap…? Cap, we got a serious problem…”

***

Brock had searched for Winter long into the night, but he had turned up hide nor hair of the asset. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been as stressed as he was in his _life_ , and the fact that he was supposed to have been back at storage with Winter hours ago certainly wasn’t helping.

The missed call after missed call he had from Pierce only made him want to curl up and cry – that, or put a bullet in his brain.

The van screeched to a stop outside of Captain Rogers’ apartment building. He fled the van and sprinted into the entrance lobby, completely ignoring the alarm on the doorman’s face as he made a beeline – looking very much like a madman with his arms flailing in the air - for Steve, waiting for him by the staircase.

“Oh, _fuck,_ Cap, we’re _screwed_!” Brock was pulling at his hair, his body still quaking like he was having a seizure. “Fuck fuck fuck, I don’t know what to _do_ , Cap! They’ll take Winter from me and they’ll kill me and then Winter’s _fucked,_ Cap! He’s _fucked_!”

“Calm down, Rumlow, it’s okay.” Steve grabbed Brock by the shoulders and squeezed, trying to calm him. “Hey. Rumlow. Hey.”

Brock was still freaking out. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, he wondered if this was what it felt like for Winter to have his brains fizzle constantly.

“Rumlow!” Steve shook Brock a little. “Rumlow, I live right next to a nurse; do you want me to take you to her?”

“Nonononono I just – I can’t – Winter –“ Brock was rambling now, so Steve started dragging him up the stairs and away from the watchful eye of the doorman.

Brock was almost in hysterics. Steve had no idea how he’d managed to drag him up the staircase and into the hallway his apartment was located in. He’d almost felt relief when his neighbour emerged from her own apartment with a basket of dirty laundry; hopefully her skills as a nurse would be able to at least calm Brock’s hysterics.

“Sharon.” Steve waved his neighbour over. “Can you give me a hand with my friend? I think he’s having a panic attack and –“

“- Stay away from me, you fuckin’ SHIELD bitch!” Brock was snarling at the woman, who had barely looked at him for two seconds. He pulled away from Steve’s grip and threw himself against Steve’s door. “You fuckin’ tell Pierce you saw me here and I’ll –“

“- Rumlow!” Steve hastily fished his keys from his pocket to unlock his door and let Brock inside. He turned his attention back to his neighbour, his expression apologetic and resembling a kicked puppy. “I’m sorry, Sharon, he’s –“

“- Don’t tell her, Cap! Don’t tell her or she’ll run her fuckin’ ass over to Pierce!” Brock was hysterical again. Steve hoped so badly that Sharon had some sort of sedatives in her home to give him. “She’ll run to Pierce and he’s going to know and Pierce is going to torture Winter ‘cause I keep fuckin’ up! He’s gonna punish Winter ‘cause of _me_!”

“Rumlow, just –“ Steve pushed Brock into his apartment. “Rumlow. Please, you need to calm down or I can’t help you.”

Steve couldn’t know for sure, but he had the impression that Brock was so lost in his life, this Winter person had been the only thing holding him together, and now the cracks were showing with Winter gone.

Brock opened his mouth to give another rambled plea, but he quickly shut it and snapped to the sound of a familiar voice calling out from the living room.

“You guys gonna shut up and let a guy sleep or what…?”

Brock was reaching for his pistol and was in a frantic enough state of mind to shoot first and ask questions later. Hell, with how his mind was functioning, he would probably shoot _himself_ before anyone else.

Steve had left Brock to investigate his apartment. Brock followed him with his gun at the ready, and the only thing that stopped him from shooting when they found the intruder was knowing just how truly fucked he would be if he were to shoot an already-injured Nick Fury in Captain Rogers’ apartment _in front_ of Captain Rogers himself.

“What the fuck…” Brock whispered to himself. He lowered his gun, looking around the apartment hastily, like he would find Winter hiding behind the couch if he just looked hard enough. “Winter!”

The wall exploding from behind Brock was no doubt Winter’s work. Pierce had worked himself too deeply into the programming for Brock to be able to override it so easily – and Brock had been a fucking fool to even _try_ ; he’d probably accomplished nothing but confusing Winter and messing up the programming.

Brock was probably why Winter had taken off in the first place…

“Winter!” Brock hoped to god Winter would recognise his voice and stay in place. It looked almost like he would have, too, but the second Steve started sprinting at him, Winter was running.

“Don’t hurt him, Cap!” Brock bellowed after the Captain as he stepped over Nick Fury and barged past Sharon, who had let herself into the apartment with a gun of her own raised.

Brock ran as fast as he could through the apartment building and outside to try and find where Winter and Steve had ended up. He found them, eventually, attacking each other in an alleyway, with grazes to their foreheads that gave Brock the impression they’d fallen off a rooftop in their assaults.

Brock pointed his gun at Steve when Steve got Winter into a headlock and forced him to his knees. His eyes were narrowed, and his voice trembled heavily with all his stress as he growled, “Let go of him, Cap…”

“We had an agreement, Rumlow,” Steve snarled back as he tightened his hold on Winter and dragged out muffled chokes from behind the mask. “We had an agreement, and he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain.”

“It’s _my fault_ that he didn’t, Cap; I fucked everything up ‘cause I confused him – if you want to kill the right person, I’m right here. Now _let him go_!”

“No, Rumlow, you kept to our deal; _he_ didn’t! He came back to finish the job, and I –“

“- Because the orders he was given from the higher ups were ones I _couldn’t_ override, and I fucked up him up tryin’! Let him go or I _will_ shoot you!”

“I’m taking him in to be dealt with.” Steve pulled his phone from his pocket. “Rumlow, you can leave. Our deal stands. I’ll keep your name out of it. But he’s coming with me.”

“You’ve got three seconds to let go of him, Cap – believe me; I _don’t_ want to fight you, big guy.”

Brock counted down, but even so, Steve still connected the call. Brock grit his teeth; he was left with no choice. He lowered the gun, aiming it at Steve’s thigh and pulling the trigger three times. He knew the injuries wouldn’t slow Steve for long, so once Steve was reeling in surprise and pain, Brock leapt forward and pulled Winter away.

“C’mon; we’re gettin’ the fuck outta here.” Brock ran with Winter’s hand still in his, leading him all the way back to the van. He wasted no time in starting it and roaring away with tyres spinning; all he could do was wipe nervous sweat from his forehead and say, “We need to stop back at base for somethin’, and then we’re gone, Wints. We’re gone. We’re never comin’ back.”

Winter’s voice was so small when he replied, Brock felt his heart break. “No more… No more chair…?”

“No more chair,” Brock promised. “Never ever. Never gonna take you back to that chair for anythin’, Wints. Swear it.”

Winter started vibrating now, and if it was from fear or excitement, Brock couldn’t tell. But he didn’t have time to find out; they had to get out of here, and _now_.

“Winter, we gotta steal some files from base before we go.” Brock couldn’t help but watch his mirrors in paranoia, convinced that any second now, someone was going to be after them. “They’re important, and I need them. We need to sneak in; don’t let anyone know we’re there. We get the files; in and out. No guns; too loud. Anyone catches us, break their necks. Any security cameras, destroy them. Got it?”

Winter seemed unsettled by the stress Brock was radiating. He was shaking himself, fidgeting, and when he nodded, he seemed uncertain of himself, as if he didn’t believe this mission was something he could carry out. It was understandable; Winter was used to following only confident men who did well to hide their weaknesses – seeing Brock like this was probably feeding him anxiety, too.

Brock reached over to take Winter’s hand and squeeze. “It’s gonna be okay, Winter; we’re gettin’ out. Promise.”

***

Brock had never doubted Winter’s ability to get him to the records room undetected. While Winter stood watch at the doorway, Brock hastily moved about to find every file on himself that had been archived, and downloaded the digital data for it onto his USB before he deleted it from the system to make it harder for Hydra to track him down in the future. He was just about to leave when he realised that, while removing Winter’s files wasn’t going to make any difference whatsoever, it would still give Brock an insight into just who he was trying to steal away from Hydra.

Brock quickly gathered up Winter’s records, and once he had everything, they were leaving. They got back to the van without any hassle, and once all the tracking devices had been disabled or ripped out – courtesy of Winter, of course – Brock started the van back up and hightailed it out of there.

Two hours had passed before he looked at Winter again. He frowned at just how anxious Winter was presenting. “Wints? You doin’ okay, buddy?”

Winter’s mask was still covering his mouth, but his eyes looked so sad, Brock didn’t know what to do. “What is my mission now? I don’t understand, Commander… Did I do something wrong?”

“Winter, no… No, you did _nothin’_ wrong,” Brock promised. “Your mission? …Well, I don’t know, I just… Just rest up, I guess.”

“What about Pierce?” Winter whispered. “He will punish me if I don’t give him my mission report…”

“He won’t,” Brock growled, his hands clenching the steering wheel so tightly, his knuckles went white. “He won’t ‘cause I’m not gonna let him near you, Wints. I swear it. I’m not lettin’ _any_ of those Hydra bastards come near ya.”

Winter didn’t seem soothed. Instead, he started rocking on the spot as he stared ahead with wide eyes. The programming was breaking down, Brock assumed. That, or Winter was feeling genuine fear for the first time that Brock had seen.

Brock cursed beneath his breath, unable to bear what they’d done to Winter. He slammed the brakes on and then threw the van into reverse, backing it in amongst a clutter of trees to hide it from any passing vehicles. He turned the engine off once he was satisfied with the amount of camouflage and climbed into the back, gesturing for Winter to follow him.

“We’re goin’ to get some sleep while we still have time,” Brock instructed. “Let me roll out the mattresses; try and calm down or you’ll never fall asleep.”

Winter couldn’t calm down; not even once Brock had laid out the mattresses and dropped blankets on top of them. He laid down next to Brock, a small distance between their bodies, but he didn’t mind; his chest was heaving too much, and his entire body felt drenched with sweat; he wasn’t sure he wanted Brock so close to him to make him feel hotter than he already felt.

“Deep breaths, big guy… Deep breaths…” Brock’s tired eyes were watching Winter’s face through the small light of the lamp he had lit next to them. The mask had been removed, so he reached out to rub his fingers against Winter’s lips. “Breathe in… Breathe out…”

“Have I been bad?” Winter whimpered. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, Wints, you’ve been so _good_.” It was a lie, but making Winter think he was being punished right now was the worst thing Brock could do. He reached out to stroke Winter’s head to help affirm his statements. “Such a good boy for me, Winter. Always such a good boy…”

Winter squeezed his eyes shut and gave a full-body shudder. The programming was conflicted. It anticipated reward, but Winter’s mind was certain of punishment. Brock didn’t even want to lower his gaze to see what was going on in Winter’s pants as response.

“Hey.” Brock reached out to take Winter’s flesh hand. “Hey. Just relax. You know I’ll look after you. I always look after you, don’t I?”

Winter didn’t hesitate to nod.

“Good. Just trust me, okay? I never let anyone hurt you, and I’m not going to let them hurt you now. Sleep, okay? Go to sleep. That’s your mission. Can you do that for me?”

Winter’s nod was more hesitant now, but still, he gave it. Brock gave a pleased hum and continued stroking Winter’s head again. He closed his own eyes and tried to fall asleep as well, but of course, the post-adrenaline of what he had done was kicking in, and Brock was sure he was never going to sleep again.  


	4. Chapter 4

“How’s your leg, Cap?” Brock’s eyes darted all around the dark, stuffy roadside gas and diner he’d stopped at for fuel and food. He was hyper vigilant, knowing just how easily he could have been followed and not even realise it. His fingers tightened around his phone, and his body tensed as he got ready for a fight when someone reached down past the hem of their shirt and into their waistband of their jeans, but he relaxed when they resurfaced with their wallet to pay for their food.

“Nothing that won’t heal.” Steve didn’t sound pissed. That was something, but Brock probably should have expected it; Steve wasn’t really the type of guy to hold a grudge. Not unless you were Hydra. …Yeah, this was just stressing him even more. “You know your phone is probably being tracked, Rumlow. I heard Director Pierce talking about you disappearing with the van on a routine mission, and he wants you found. They’re trying to keep it under wraps at SHIELD, but there’s also talk of an asset vanishing. That asset is Winter, right?”

“Yep. Did you tell them about me?”

“No. We had a deal. But I wasn’t covering for your friend, Rumlow – not after… Fury is dead, Rumlow.”

Brock sighed. He felt genuine guilt about what had happened with Fury and the ensuing chaos, but really, what else could he have expected Captain Rogers to do? The entire Captain America mantle was built upon righteousness and keeping evil in check…

“Listen, big guy… Project Insight… You’re running out of time.” Brock did another quick sweep of his surroundings before he murmured, “Jasper Sitwell. He was always a coward. He’ll spill if you scare him enough, Cap. You’re gonna need that information.”

“You’re turning me against your own comrades now, Rumlow?” Brock almost didn’t believe that Steve sounded amused.

“Well, I fuckin’ hate Sitwell, Cap. And he’s _not_ my comrade. Not anymore. I’m done with Hydra. For all I care, you can throw Sitwell in front of a semi. Serves the asshole right anyway.”

“Thanks, Rumlow. I’m doing my best to keep them off your tail – but I can’t promise they won’t be coming after your friend. You probably shouldn’t call me again; they _really_ want to find you, and tracking your phone will be the first thing they do.”

Brock gave an exhausted shrug. “Let the fuckers come… I’ll kill every last one of them. But seriously, Cap. I owe you.”

“Just don’t get yourself caught, Rumlow; don’t make you shooting me in the leg to have been in vain.” With that, Steve cut the call.

Brock sighed. He bounced his leg impatiently on the barstool, not caring just how jampacked the building was; they were taking too long with his order, and leaving Winter on his own in the van was making him antsy; what if he were to come back and find that Winter was gone?

“Hey.” Brock waved over one of the waitresses. “How long’s my food gonna be? I’m in a bit of a rush…”

“Sorry, sir; it should be ten minutes away.”

Brock winced. “Can you get a rush on that? My, uh… My pregnant wife is waitin’ for me in the car.”

“I’ll see what I can do, sir.”

Twenty-five minutes had elapsed before Brock was finally handed his food. He said nothing as he took the order and made his way back to the van, knowing they would have to ditch it for another vehicle the first chance they got; the van was too easily identifiable, and no doubt Hydra would be scanning for any sighting of it.

Brock’s hands trembled as he opened the front door of the van and slid into the driver’s seat. “Hey, buddy. Sorry I took so long; they were slow with the – Hey, you okay?”

Winter was sitting up straight, his eyes focused on something past the windshield. He was shaking, and though his mouth was set so stoically, his eyes were shiny with tears. “…”

“Winter?” Brock put the food on the seat between them so he could reach out cautiously and put his hands on Winter’s shoulders. “Winter, what’s wrong?”

“…”

“Soldat.” Brock winced at his own words; how he _hated_ this so much… “Soldat, status report. What is wrong?”

Winter hesitated, but slowly, so _quietly,_ he whispered, “I thought you weren’t going to come back…”

“Oh…” Brock sighed, not knowing what to do; he’d been alone for so long in his life, he hadn’t really even experienced comfort himself. His fingers glided against his sweaty palms as he tried to think of the right thing to do. “Well… I’m here, aren’t I? I ain’t leavin’ ya, Wints. Promise. I’d have been back way sooner but the girls were slow makin’ our food; I _wanted_ to be back sooner.”

Winter lowered his eyes. His lips twitched into a hint of a frown before they went back to sitting stoic. “…”

Brock changed the subject, hoping it would help snap Winter out of it. “Anyway… I got us some food. It’s probably gonna taste like shit bein’ the middle of nowhere and all… But hey, food is food, right?”

Winter sniffed softly before he looked curiously to the bag between them. His nostrils could smell the scent, much more strongly than Brock’s could. For some reason, as much as his stomach churned nauseously at the smell, he couldn’t help but think that there had once been a point in his life where his mouth would have drooled eagerly at the scent.

But it was silly to think that when Winter had never known anything but Hydra.

“Hmm…” Brock pulled the containers from the bag and eyed them dubiously. His nose crinkled a little at what he was seeing. “One burnt to hell grilled fish that looks like fuckin’ charcoal for me, and some sort of homemade soup that looks like someone just vomited into the container for you. Sorry our first date couldn’t be at a five-star restaurant; I don’t think you’re supposed to dine at those when you’re on the run.”

Winter gingerly took the container he was passed. He accepted the spoon as well, but he only stared down at it with some sort of confused curiosity that made Brock wish he could go back to the Hydra base and shoot a few heads.

“Here.” Brock took the container and tore the lid off carelessly before he took the spoon back and dipped it in to the soup. He scooped up a small amount of liquid and raised it to his own lips to show Winter what was expected. “See? It’s easy. But don’t eat too fast; _slow,_ Wints.”

Winter accepted the soup and spoon when it was passed back to him, and though he tried to mimic what Brock had done, all he accomplished was spilling the contents of the spoon when he bumped it into his tightly-sealed lips.

Brock dropped the piece of fish he’d snapped off as his jaw dropped in disbelief. “Open your mouth, Winter.”

Winter did as he was told, but Brock’s hatred for Hydra only grew when all Winter did was hold his mouth open, as wide as he could get it. It was almost as if he was expecting something much larger than a spoon to push past his lips.

Brock didn’t want to think about how Winter most likely _was_ expecting something larger than a spoon to push inside.

“Right. Let’s do this a different way.” Brock grabbed the spoon and tossed it over his shoulder. He listened to it clatter against the floor in the back of the van before he turned the engine of the van on and put it into gear as he said, “Gonna work out way better anyway; not a good idea to keep sittin’ at that joint. We can drive and eat, and I know you know this way loads better than a spoon.”

Brock waited until they had gotten back onto the road before he dipped his fingers into the soup container and raised them to Winter’s lips. “Suck.”

Winter didn’t falter in this, too familiar with his usage by the others to do so. Brock picked up on no discomfort from him, so when he pulled his fingers out of Winter’s mouth and dipped them back into the soup to repeat the action, he could only sigh.

“Y’know, I’m _definitely_ teachin’ ya how to use a fuckin’ spoon when we get out of this shitty van,” Brock muttered. “This is fucked up… But at least you’re eatin’, I guess…”

They continued that pattern, until Brock had deemed Winter to have eaten enough for the time being. He’d picked at his fish in between feeding Winter, but he wasn’t feeling very hungry; perhaps it was the stress of everything that had happened, or just shitty roadside food in general.

Winter wanted the fish, though. He was trying not to make it obvious, but Brock wasn’t oblivious to his eyes darting to the burnt remnants that was supposed to be grilled fish. He snorted. “You want to try some, big guy?”

Winter gave no response he’d even heard Brock. It wasn’t Winter’s fault; it was part of his conditioning that he’d been trained to think that assets didn’t _want_. But fuck that shit, really; Winter wasn’t some fucking rifle that jammed every now and then because no one cared enough to maintain it properly; he was a fucking _human_ beneath that machine-like disposition.

Brock flicked his eyes back to the road for a brief second before he reached down to his lap to break off the smallest piece of fish. He passed it to Winter, but when Winter made no move to take it, Brock murmured a gentle, “Let me put this in your mouth. You have to chew it, though.”

Brock put the fish in Winter’s mouth, but as he pulled his hand away, he realised; _did_ Winter know how to chew? Christ, what if he just tried swallowing it whole and choked to death?

By some stroke of luck, Winter must have seen enough of Brock chewing the fish to have learnt how to mimic him. The only problem was, he wasn’t _stopping_ his chewing.

“Winter.” Brock reached out to put his hand on Winter’s knee. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, unable to shake the disgust he felt at knowing just how many different Hydra members Winter had heard his next word from. “Swallow.”

Winter did as he was told. If there were any recognition of his past in his mind, he didn’t show it.

“I…” Winter trailed off before he’d even started. Brock hated to realise that Winter had forgotten what he wanted to say already.

Brock sighed. He lifted his arm in invitation as he murmured, “Come here, Wints…”

Winter didn’t hesitate to snuggle in close. His body quivered as Brock held him close, the control he had over his facial expressions loosening as his eyes showed a contentment, but his mouth twisted into a frown.

It was probably a conflict of the programming, his touch-starved desire for affection, and all of the abuse he had endured, Brock knew.

Brock gave a heavy sigh. He dropped his head to rest his cheek on top of Winter’s head. “Hey. How you doin’, buddy?”

“Not doing anything.” Winter tilted his head back to give Brock a confused look.

Brock kissed Winter’s forehead and squeezed him in apology. “Sorry; shoulda known you’d get confused.”

It was silent between them for almost an hour before Winter, still curled up against Brock’s side, whispered, “I’ve been so naughty… I’m being punished…”

“What? No, you aren’t,” Brock promised. “I swear. You’ve been _good,_ Wints. So, _so_ good. I haven’t put you in your seat, have I?”

Winter looked over his shoulder to glare at his chair with the metal restraints that he hated so much. Brock always let him sit out with the rest of the team, free to move about wherever he pleased, and Brock never made him go into the restraints unless he’d been bad. The other teams he was sent out with, though… No matter how long the drive would take, they wouldn’t even let him out of his chair if he was trying desperately not to wet himself. 

Brock was Winter’s favourite person, and he’d never _not_ been able to gravitate towards him – for good reason, clearly; Winter knew there was no one else in the world he could trust as much as he trusted Brock.

Winter curled closer into Brock. He stared out of the windshield, watching the scenery go by curiously; he’d never been allowed in the front before, usually there being no room for him with the team leaders and a driver there instead.

It was nice to have something interesting to watch, and Winter now understood why Brock rarely came into the back of the van while it was still moving; Winter wouldn’t want to lose this view, either.

Winter leaned into the hand that came up to play with his hair. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, feeling the tension leave his body until there was nothing but calmness within him.

The calmness remained for the rest and of the day, and well into the morning as well, but it came to an abrupt end when Brock’s head started hanging forward, his chin against his chest and eyes closed, and Winter watched the van veering off the road and into the dirt shoulder.

Winter’s hand shot out to grasp the steering wheel, but he wasn’t fast enough; the second his gloved fingers closed around the steering wheel, it was jerked out of his control, and the van headed violently towards a huge oak tree sitting just before a ditch.

Brock had jerked awake after being thrown against the driver’s side door. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands and tried to guide it away from the tree and the ditch without oversteering it, but the dirt was too slippery, and he couldn’t manoeuvre it out of the way completely; the rear of the van hit the tree, _hard,_ and spent it spinning in circles, through the dirt and across the road, narrowly missing an oncoming car, and almost tipping it onto its side in an empty paddock on the other side of the road.

“Fuck!” Brock punched the steering wheel angrily. “Fuck!”

Winter had eyes only for Brock. He observed for any injury, ignoring completely his own wellbeing, and wouldn’t tear his eyes away until he was content with deciding that Brock wasn’t hurt, but he was indeed shaken, almost like on missions they had completed together that hadn’t gone so smoothly.

Brock took a few deep breaths to calm his heart rate before he looked to Winter, looking as passive as ever. He wondered if there had been any fear in Winter just moments ago – if there _still_ was fear and unsettlement inside him, but it was masked behind a stoic expression. “You hurt?”

It was a stupid thing to ask; Winter was trained out of noticing most bodily signals and feelings, and the ones that he _did_ pay any attention to were usually critical - Winter probably wouldn’t have noticed he had been hurt if the airbags had gone off and broken his ribs.

As expected, Winter shook his head. He reached out to touch Brock, but his hand stopped midway, silently asking for permission. He reached out when he received a nod in response and dragged his fingertips along Brock’s arm. Brock wondered if he were checking for unseen injury.

“Fuck it.” Brock slapped himself in the face with the heel of his palm when he saw someone running to him from the side mirror. It definitely wasn’t Hydra; most likely an occupant from the car he’d nearly taken out with them. “Fuckin’ gets better and better, doesn’t it, Winter?”

Brock rolled the window down, hoping the newcomer wouldn’t get too close; the last thing they needed was for someone to see all the weapons they had in the back of the van.

“Hey, you guys okay?!” It was a young man, who looked deeply concerned as he stopped by the van and darted his eyes between Brock and Winter. “You almost hit me!”

“Yeah… Sorry; I fell asleep – hit the dirt.” Brock grit his teeth as he finally became aware of an ache in his neck; clipping that tree must have been harder than he’d initially thought. Fuck, he hoped Winter wasn’t hurt and didn’t even realise… “We’re fine. All good here. You ‘kay?”

“Yeah, I swerved. The back of the van’s a bit messed up, though; might not want to drive too far. The back bumper’s ripped off and your wheel alignment isn’t looking right.”

“How far is it to the next town from here?” Well, they didn’t exactly have a choice, did they? Not like they could call someone to come pick them up. He _could,_ and they’d be only too happy to come get them, but their greeting would be in the way of putting bullets in their brains.

Yeah… No thanks.

“About half-hour, but I _really_ wouldn’t be driving there – looks like you’ve bent the chassis, and –“

“- Yeah, yeah, we’ll call someone.” Brock waved his hand dismissively. “Thanks. We’ll call someone.”

“If you need a number for the nearest tow truck company, I –“

“- Nah; we got family livin’ close by; we’ll be fine.” Brock didn’t want to deal with this, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Winter picking up on his stress; his tensing body was usually his first sign of aggression.

Fucking hell, the last thing he needed to deal with was Winter going off the deep end again.

Thankfully, it didn’t take much for Brock to get the newcomer to leave them alone. He watched in his side mirror as the man got back into his car and pulled away. Brock waited until he was completely out of sight before he put the van back into drive and pulled it onto the road again. He winced at the loud whining noise that was coming from the back of the van; well, hopefully they’d be able to pick up another vehicle in the next town and finally ditch the Hydra van.

***

Brock quickly realised that if he wanted to ditch the van and continue putting as much distance between he and DC, he was going to have to steal a car – and ending up in a fucking backwards village in the middle of nowhere was going to make that hard unless he wanted his face plastered all over the news.

Brock slammed the van into park outside of a café that looked like it had seen better days. He dropped his face into his hands, trying to understand how his life had come to this. He looked up only when he felt Winter touch his arm.

“Hey.” Brock smiled at Winter. Really, none of this was Winter’s fault; he was honestly the victim in this, because Brock couldn’t see him having volunteered willingly for this life. “You okay?”

Winter curled in against Brock in response, and Brock couldn’t help but wrap his arm around him and hold him close.

“I guess we’re home, buddy…” This wasn’t what Brock imagined when he’d hightailed it out of DC with Winter in tow; he’d imagined getting further away from the fucks who were out to kill him now, in a huge, sprawling city he could blend into easily enough. That probably would have been the plan if he hadn’t fallen asleep and almost killed them.

“Home…” Winter whispered the word like it was foreign to him. In a way, it probably was. Brock honestly doubted that Winter had ever thought of Hydra as his home – more so, he only returned back there every time because he was conditioned to do so.

Brock nodded. “I don’t know where just yet… But I’m going to work somethin’ out – as soon as I know what fuckin’ town this is, at least.”

Winter watched Brock open the van door and step out into the sunshine. He almost made to follow him out, but then he remembered how he was supposed to stay away from civilians. Hydra never let him out of the van on his own; it was always on their order that he was to emerge and engage the mission immediately. He sat back in his spot, straight-backed and ready for orders.

But Brock turned to face him this time, and he nodded his head at the building before him. “C’mon. It’s okay.”

When Winter started climbing across the front of the van to join him, Brock quickly thought better of his words.

“Wait.” Brock looked around, knowing they couldn’t go out in their tac gear; it would be far too suspicious – and in such a small village, it could raise alarm they couldn’t afford. He shrugged his STRIKE jacket from his shoulders and tossed it carelessly onto the seat. “Wait for me to come back; I need to get us proper clothing.”

Winter did as he was told. He sat patiently, staring out of the windshield as he waited for Brock to return. When Brock came back ten minutes later, he had a plastic bag in hand.

Brock got back into the van and threw the bag into the back. “Okay. Get over; let’s get dressed and then we’ll go relax.”

Brock understood why Winter stood motionlessly in the back of the van and only watched Brock strip out of his tac gear and instead don some jeans and a black leather jacket over his undershirt; Winter was a helpless puppy who couldn’t do anything for himself – if he could even be taught how to dress himself, Brock had his doubts.

“Okay…” Once Brock was dressed, he started stripping Winter’s own gear, replacing it with fresh underwear (probably the first he’d worn in decades, unfortunately), baggy slacks, and an even baggier hoodie jacket to go over his new red long-sleeved shirt that Brock hoped would be enough to make him look smaller than he really was and also hide the metal arm adequately. To top off Winter’s look, Brock had bought him a cap, and Brock couldn’t help but think that he’d never seen Winter look more adorable. “We’re ready. C’mon.”

Winter followed behind so closely, Brock could feel his body heat against his back. It was almost endearing just how much of a lost duckling Winter was, and Brock couldn’t say he didn’t like it; there were really no instances in his life where he could say someone _wanted_ to be close to him without ill intentions.

It was probably what had drawn Brock to Winter in the first place; as dangerous as Winter was, Winter _wanted_ to be close to him – even if Brock had hurt him, Winter still looked at him with trust in his eyes and sat obediently at his feet, just to be near to him.

Brock frowned as he turned to look at Winter. Quietly, just so only Winter could hear, he murmured, “I don’t know where I would be in my life if I didn’t have you to look after… I probably would have gone off the deep end years ago.”

Winter didn’t understand, but Brock didn’t expect him to; Winter would have lost his capability for understanding decades ago with everything he had been through.

They entered the café. Brock ordered a coffee and a customised smoothie for Winter, and once they had their order, they sat down on a sofa and curled in close together. Brock’s eyes were drawn to the TV on the other side of the room, news reports and videos of the fall of SHIELD before his very eyes. Fuck, the body count alone must have been massive; according to the news report currently playing, Hydra had just taken over the SHIELD Academy, and the slaughter was senseless.

Brock closed his eyes and tried not to think about how he was supposed to have been caught up in all of this, too.

“Makes you wonder what kind of messed up person it takes to do this kind of thing.”

Brock’s eyes opened again and darted back to the counter to see the owner of the business, looking at the TV also. He nodded; his face pale and his eyes wide. “Yeah… All kinds of fucked up…”

Brock felt relief at knowing Captain Rogers was there, and seeing him alive and well in the video footage that played on the TV gave him hope that everything might be okay by some miracle. Part of Brock wanted so badly to feel even the slightest bit of redemption at the knowledge that him tipping Captain Rogers off in the first place was probably the only thing that had kept the assault from being any worse than it already was.

But Brock knew he deserved no redemption for the things he had done in his life, and any thought he still had was gone when the screen cut back to the news reporter, and a photo of Brock fucking Rumlow was shown next to her that made Brock wish he’d just let the van hit the tree and put him out of his misery.

“Unaccounted for is SHIELD’s STRIKE Team Commander, Brock Rumlow, believed to also have been part of Hydra,” she announced. Brock wanted to vomit; had Captain Rogers sold them out…? “He is believed to be accompanied by an unknown person, last seen leaving what is thought to be Hydra’s base of operations in a STRIKE van that also is reported missing. Both Rumlow and his partner are extremely dangerous. Do not approach.”

Captain Rogers may not have sold them out after all; he couldn’t have known they’d gone back to the Hydra base, but regardless, Brock felt the bile climb his throat as he realised something else; they may have taken the files from Hydra, but Brock’s SHIELD records were all still there. He wanted to drop his face into his hands and cry, but he couldn’t, because the owner of the café was staring at them, eyes flickering to the van still parked out front, before fixing on them again.

Brock sat up so stiffly, it hurt. He avoided eye contact, staring anywhere but at the owner.

“You know, you look an awful lot like that Rumlow fella they just showed on the news…” The man’s tone was full of suspicion. Brock’s first instinct was to shoot, steal his car, and get the fuck out of there – but that would only put more heat on him; if he could talk his way out of this, they… “But I suppose that if that guy was as dangerous as they want us to believe, he’d be there in all the chaos, and you men have been sitting so quietly minding your own business.”

Brock was starting to shake, and he could see Winter picking up on it as his flesh hand also started to tremble. He nodded. “Y-yeah… It’s not us; we don’t want nothin’ to do with that shit…”

Brock moved closer to Winter, wrapping his arm around his shoulders and holding him close. He tilted the baseball cap down to hide more of Winter’s face from any cameras or passers-by; was Brock really so much of a failure? Fuck, he couldn’t do _anything_ right, could he…?

“Thank you for the drinks…” Brock mumbled as he stood. “C’mon, Wints; let’s go…”

Brock was such a fuck-up. Everyone he’d known in his life had been right about him. He may have survived for twenty years in Hydra, but now look at him, on his own and fucking himself over again and again.

Brock remembered now why his teenage years had been filled so much with the desire to die.

Brock climbed into the van after Winter, but he didn’t start the engine; instead, he did what he had wanted to do just two minutes ago and dropped his face into his hands so he could cry.

Winter didn’t speak, but Brock took the way Winter curled up with his head on his lap and face resting against Brock’s stomach as his own attempt at comfort. Brock let out a loud sob as he reached down to ruffle Winter’s hair.

This was supposed to have freed them both from Hydra, but really, all it seemed to have done so far was make everything so much harder.

***

They’d found a motel not far from the café that night. Brock had left Winter in the van while he booked a room, with a single bed to try and make himself look less like the assailant on the news reports. He’d been handed the key to the room, and once he’d gotten back to the van and ushered Winter into the room, he threw himself down on the bed and nursed his aching neck; the pain had grown with every passing hour, and now a headache was starting up.

Brock groaned softly. He watched Winter moving about the room, pulling everything out of place and then putting it back once he’d done his checks. “Hey, buddy. Lookin’ for bugs?”

Winter looked at Brock and nodded. He moved to the TV and tilted it forward until he was content there were no security breaches hidden behind it.

Brock sighed. He’d love a shower right now, and Winter probably felt the same even if he didn’t know it, but really… His fucking _neck_.

Winter came to lay with Brock once he was satisfied there weren’t any bugs in the room. His eyes stared into Brock’s with a ferocious intensity, and Brock couldn’t help but shiver; what the hell was going through his mind to put that kind of look in his normally-dead eyes?

“Fuckin’… Need painkillers. Stay here.” Brock rolled himself off the bed and stumbled back out to the van. He slid the back door open so he could fetch a first aid kit and take the first painkillers he found, not caring what they were for; if they would get rid of this damn headache, he’d be happy.

Winter watched carefully as Brock returned and downed three painkillers. That intensity in his eyes hadn’t left; in fact, it seemed to grow, along with some sort of recognition Brock didn’t understand.

Brock had thrown himself onto the mattress, back first, with his eyes closed and the packet of painkillers gripped tightly in his hand. He groaned in pain.

Brock’s eyes snapped open again when he felt the packet being ripped from his hand, and heard the popping of the blister packet as Winter pushed out four tablets. “What the fuck?”

Winter climbed on top of Brock and straddled him as he brought the tablets to Brock’s mouth. He tried to push them past tightly-clamped lips, his hand following Brock’s face whenever it would thrash side-to-side to get away from the intrusion. He seemed so damned determined to make Brock take the tablets, Brock couldn’t help but wonder if he was trying to help him, or kill him with an overdose.

Brock broke away from Winter’s hand long enough to growl, “Soldat, _stop_! Get off me!”

Winter obeyed immediately, but he still held the tablets out to Brock, as if he hadn’t given up hope that if he tried hard enough, he could force them down Brock’s throat. When he spoke, it was so soft, so quiet, and Brock couldn’t help but think that there was a hint of concern in his voice. “You are sick. You need tablets.”

“I’ve already taken them,” Brock promised in a softer tone of his own now that he knew that Winter wasn’t trying to murder him. “Look. You’ll kill me if you try to make me take more. Okay? So just let me handle the meds and everythin’ will be fine.”

Winter’s eyes glinted with confused concern, and perhaps even a bit of fear. When he repeated himself, he sounded genuinely nervous. “You are sick. The tablets make you feel better.”

“I’m fine. Swear it.” Brock let out a relieved sigh when Winter’s hands dropped away, spilling the tablets amongst the bed sheets. It was silent in the room for a few moments before Brock realised that Winter’s neck was probably hurting as well, and if Winter even knew, he most likely didn’t know how to let Brock know. “C’mere.”

Winter laid down next to Brock when he felt a tug at his shirt. His eyes still stared into Brock’s, but he made no move to get away; he just watched warily as Brock’s right hand slowly came closer to closer to his neck. He tensed.

“Easy… Easy… Not gonna hurt you…” Brock hovered his hand in the air just inches from Winter’s neck. “You trust me, don’t you, Wints? You trust me, right? Good… Good boy… Just gonna make your neck feel a bit better. Can you roll over onto your other side for me?”

Winter obeyed. He was still tense when he felt fingertips against the back of his neck; how vulnerable he was right now to a neck break he couldn’t see coming…

But when Brock’s fingers started moving, Winter’s eyes fluttered shut, and a soft moan escaped his lips as he pressed into the touch.

Brock was right; Winter’s neck was so tight to the touch, he couldn’t help but wonder if Winter also was experiencing a headache he couldn’t make heads or tails of. He kneaded the tight muscle carefully, massaging Winter’s neck until it all felt soft and loose. He moved his hands down to knead at Winter’s shoulder blades next, but he only did it for a few minutes before Winter was rolling himself back around and trying to mimic Brock’s movements on Brock’s own neck.

“You are sick. You sleep; I will keep watch.” Winter’s fingers never stopped their movements.

“You had to have been a mother hen in another life,” Brock muttered, but he had no complaints; he was out like a light, wrapped tightly in Winter’s arms as Winter kept careful watch through the window for anyone who meant harm.

Winter had always been protective of his things; he hated people touching his rifle, and a few Hydra members had learnt that the hard way through broken fingers. But Brock was even more important than his rifle. Winter would chew his way through an army if he had to in order to protect Brock, even if all he was armed with was a single blade.

Winter didn’t quite understand it himself; all he knew was that, to the best of his memory, Brock had been the only person to ever show him gentleness, and Winter had latched on to that like a starving wolf and its first meal in two weeks.


	5. Chapter 5

The motel room reeked of vomit when Brock could finally begin the process of vacating it two weeks later. Winter was sick. Very sick. Super soldiers weren’t supposed to be able to get sick, but then again, Winter _had_ had a knock-off serum; who knew just how alike it had been to Erskine’s formula and what differences it brought.

It wasn’t a physical illness, though. Brock wasn’t that stupid. He’d seen it once before in Winter, when a mission had gone wrong and they’d lost him on the field for a week; it was the slow-release shit Hydra kept in his metal arm to deter him from wandering off whenever he was out on his own for a mission.

“You feelin’ better today?” Brock couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the poor thing who looked like death warmed up, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets and resting by the front door of the motel room so he could keep Brock in his sights.

Winter nodded. Brock didn’t doubt that he was telling the truth; had Winter been on his own, he probably would have been on death’s doorstep by now. But Brock had been with him, taking care of him and helping him through it - with a bit of luck, the worst of it was over, and whatever he’d been drugged with had hopefully left his system by now.

“Good.” Brock threw a bag of clothing into the back of the van before he went back into the room to gather their blankets. It didn’t take too long to gather up the number of personal items they had accumulated in their stay, and once they were all in the back of the van, he grabbed the cleaning kit he had left on the desk so he could try and tidy up Winter’s messes as best he could before they left; if they were going to be living in this town, he’d prefer to leave the motel on good terms and make it easier for them in the future.

Brock didn’t realise just how long it had taken to scrub the vomit from the bathroom and strip the bed sheets so he could try his best at cleaning it all before he left. It was only once he had finished, opened the windows to air the room out, and gone out to get into the van and leave did he realise that Winter’s blanket was on the cement doorstep, but Winter wasn’t beneath it, or even in the van.

“Winter!” Brock felt anxiety tugging at him as he looked around, trying to find where Winter had vanished to. He relaxed only when he spotted Winter, a good distance away and crouched down in a grassy patch by the start of the motel room block. Brock jogged his way over to see what Winter was doing. “Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

Winter looked up briefly at Brock before he dropped his gaze again. Brock took a closer look now, seeing Winter’s flesh arm extending all the way beneath a drainage grate he had pulled up to make room for him, but he couldn’t see anything in there that would have piqued Winter’s interest - not unless Winter had a strange habit of sticking his arm in places it shouldn’t be. Who knows? The guy was still a mystery, really.

“Buddy, we gotta get going; the van’s runnin’ and we’re supposed to be gone by nine.” Brock patted Winter on the back, but Winter didn’t obey; he kept stretching his arm out into the drain as if he hadn’t heard a word Brock had just said. “Wints?”

The programming would most definitely be breaking down by now, Brock knew. Two weeks was usually the maximum time Winter could be out of cryo for before he started rebelling as his brain repaired itself. Winter had definitely been out much longer than two weeks, but Brock hadn’t noticed much difference in him before now.

Anyway, wouldn’t it be a good thing for Winter to start rebelling? It would mean that he was recovering. Maybe… Unless it ended up getting Brock killed.

Brock swallowed past the thick lump in his throat. “Wints… C’mon.”

Still, Winter gave no acknowledgement to Brock. Brock sighed. He tried to take another look and see if he could see anything after all, but all he could really make out was Winter scooping his hand around, as if he was searching for something and could only rely on his sense of touch to find it.

Brock decided to trust Winter on this one. As damaged as Winter’s brain was, Brock knew he wouldn’t be messing around in drainage grates like this for no good reason.

Brock’s trust in Winter paid off when, what might have been five minutes or five hours later - Brock didn’t know; he always lost his mind around Winter - Winter was pulling his arm out, his hand closed around something small, but something _alive_ judging by the squeaks coming from his grip.

“What the fuck?” Brock squinted his eyes, as if it would give him x-ray vision to see what Winter was holding.

“He fell through the grate,” Winter murmured. He opened his hand to show Brock a wet and dirty duckling, fluffy and yellow and lost looking. Christ fuck, it was like looking at Winter, Brock couldn’t help but realise.

The first thing on Brock’s mind was to ask Winter why he thought it was a good idea to stick his arm in dark holes and pick up stray ducklings - but judging by the nervousness on Winter’s face, it would probably only make him think that he was in trouble. Brock sighed. “You like ducks?”

Winter blinked at him. “…”

Brock shrugged. “Put it down and let’s get goin’.”

Winter’s eyes widened fearfully. He brought the duckling to his chest, keeping it secure in the palm of his hand. He shook his head.

Brock cocked his eyebrow. “You really like that thing.”

Winter nodded warily. He shifted his grip on the duckling to hold it more securely. Brock wasn’t oblivious to the way he kept his metal hand clenched tightly by his side, as if he were afraid of touching the animal with it. “…”

“Why?” For once, it was Brock who didn’t understand, and this time, it wasn’t completely Winter that Brock couldn’t wrap his head around. Brock hated animals. Well, not exactly hate, but every encounter he’d had with an animal had only ever been painful. Why was Winter acting like this around a fucking _duck_ he’d only just found?

Though… the duckling Winter seemed attached to already _was_ a little bite cute…

“You wanna keep it?” Brock sighed when Winter nodded. “Alright… But you gotta name it.”

“Him.”

“What?”

Winter shifted anxiously. “He’s a him. He’s not an it like me.”

Brock patted Winter’s shoulder reassuringly. “You aren’t an it, either, Wints.”

Winter ignored those words and instead pulled the duckling away from his chest to sit it in his palm and look at it. His lips twitched with a ghostly smile before they fell back into his usual flat expression. Brock had to wonder if he was still capable of actually _smiling_.

“So, what’s his name?” Brock held Winter’s flesh elbow as they made their way back to the van. He frowned when Winter remained silent; Winter probably knew nothing of names and their significance. “First name to come to your mind. What is it?”

Without hesitation, Winter said firmly, “Stevie.”

Brock blinked in surprise; now _that_ came as a surprise. Was it memories from his life before the Winter Soldier, or was it just a name he genuinely liked? Either way, Brock couldn’t help but shift in discomfort as he thought about Captain Rogers. “I have a friend – well, he’s not really a friend… But I know someone named Steve. It’s a bit weird… What other names do you like?”

Winter’s eyebrows furrowed as if he were in great concentration. Brock almost thought he wanted to know what was going on in his mind before he remembered that _no,_ he _really_ didn’t want to know how Winter’s mind worked.

Winter licked his lips before a look of distress crossed his face, as if there was something so important on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t find the words he needed to express it.

“Hey, we can call it – him… We can call him Stevie,” Brock promised. “If you like that name, I guess it’s better than callin’ it Duck, hey.”

“Him.”

Brock couldn’t help but snort; if he’d ever thought that Winter would start rebelling, he could never have guessed it would be because of a fucking _duck_. “Right. Sorry. C’mon; let’s get out of here before the owners come and yell at us for not being gone already.”

Winter showed no more protest now, only too happy to follow Brock to the van and climb inside. He made sure to sit as close to Brock as he could, placing his duckling gently on his lap and watching it closely. Brock wasn’t fooled by the protective way Winter leaned forward, almost as if he was trying to shield it from harm.

Well, if the Winter Soldier needed a fucking duckling to find his humanity again, who was Brock to tell him no?

“We should probably feed that thing – I mean… Duck… We should probably feed Stevie when we get to the house…” Brock kept slapping himself mentally; Winter wanted nothing more than to think of the duck as a living thing, and here Brock was, doing nothing but reinforcing to Winter how _lesser_ he and the duck were…

Fucking hell, Brock needed a kick up the ass if Winter started thinking the duck was unwanted like he had been with Hydra…

Winter looked up at these words. When he spoke, his tone was so light, so _innocent_ and _childish,_ Brock had to close his eyes to come to terms with what he was dealing with here. “What do ducks eat?”

“I don’t know…” It was true; what the hell were they even going to do with the damn duck, anyway? Did they put a collar on it and leave it to run around outside like a cat? Or did they keep it inside with them and hope it would just eat and sleep? “We’ll find out, buddy.”

Winter nodded. His gloved fingers of the flesh hand stroked ever so gently along the duckling’s back. Brock could see again how the metal arm was twisted and trapped between his own body and the back of the seats. Brock’s heart ached; what Winter must have thought of himself…

“When we get to the house, maybe you should lay down for a while; you’re still lookin’ pretty pale,” Brock suggested. “I’ll go get ya some soup – make you feel a bit better.”

As expected, Winter never responded; he just kept his eyes on the duck and focused on patting it. Brock couldn’t help but give a smile when he watched Winter pick the duckling up in his flesh hand and put it on top of his head, the duckling snuggling in to his long hair and closing its eyes.

Brock reached out to squeeze Winter’s thigh when Winter’s lips twitched into that ghostly smile again. “Y’know, you’re pretty gentle when you’re given the chance. Not sure I’ve ever seen you hurt someone who didn’t have it comin’, honestly.”

Winter’s eyes locked onto Brock’s. “…”

Brock shrugged, trying to play it off as if it wasn’t such a big deal. “Just sayin’… Those Hydra fucks never had any fuckin’ idea ‘bout ya.”

Again, Winter stayed silent. If his words had had any effect on him, Brock didn’t know, but there was no time to find out because as he turned the van into a tiny street hidden in a lush residential area, he was pointing out their new home to Winter.

“There. That’s our house. That’s where we’re gonna be livin’ now. No more Hydra and no more SHIELD. It’s gonna be _peaceful_.”

“Peaceful…” Winter was doing that thing again that Brock hated; murmuring words to get a feel for them as if he was trying to learn a foreign language.

“Yep.” Brock swung the van onto an angle so he could back it into the driveway. “Peaceful.”

Brock didn’t get Winter to help him unload the van. Instead, he’d grabbed Winter’s blankets and made him a bed up on the sofa so he could lay down and rest with Stevie.

The house felt so empty, even with the furniture that had been delivered the day before, and the personal belongings Brock had been going out and buying for them to keep himself sane. Maybe it was because a two-bedroomed house was bigger than the tiny apartment he’d had in DC, or perhaps Brock’s headspace had been getting worse with every passing day – either way, Brock just wanted to curl up somewhere and never have to emerge again.

Brock came into the living room to check on Winter. He tried not to think about how unwelcoming the room felt with its single chair and sofa and nothing else to make it feel lived in; instead, he moved to Winter’s side to press the back of his hand against his face. “You’re still runnin’ bit of a fever… Just stay on the sofa and try to sleep. I’m gonna go get us some food and try pick up a TV if I can.”

Brock tried not to take too long in town. He did a small grocery shop, picked up a few more things they would need, and somehow managed to find an electronics store in the tiny town that didn’t even have a fucking _McDonald’s_.

Needless to say, when Brock returned home, he was worried about what he would find; would Winter have freaked out and rampaged? Or would he have tried to find Brock? Would Brock get home and find that Hydra had taken him?

Brock really needed to learn how to get his thoughts under control because he was getting sick and tired of the near-constant anxiety plaguing him.

Brock’s concerns had just been a waste of energy, because when Brock unlocked the front door and stepped inside, Winter was still on the sofa, fast asleep on his back. He looked so peaceful, his flesh hand cupped around the duckling on his chest as it, too, slept.

Brock smiled. He moved to the sofa to pull the blankets higher and tuck Winter in tight. He kissed Winter’s forehead for good measure before he went back out to the van and unloaded it, making sure he had gotten everything before he opened the fence gate and carefully backed the van into the rear yard to hide it behind the house.

Just when Brock had turned the engine off and opened the door to get out of the van, his eye was caught by something poking out from under the seats. He leant forward and picked it up, realising now that the files and USB he had taken from the Hydra base had almost been forgotten about, probably shoved under the seat from where the van had hit the tree and spun out; the force had been enough to throw the weapons about in the cargo hold, after all.

Brock took them with him and left them on the kitchen counter, wanting to read them that night before he went to bed. For now, he had to take care of Winter and try to get his fever down a little more.

***

“Fuck, my neck...” Brock grimaced as he rubbed his neck in discontentment. It had been aching on and off ever since the incident in the van, and he was starting to wonder if he should see a doctor about it – but how the hell did he even _find_ a doctor in this shithole town? What an interesting visit that would be, anyway; oh, hey, I think I fucked my neck up trying to get away from the terrorist organisation I was part of for twenty years; can you take a look and make sure you don’t realise I’m giving you a fake ID while you’re at it?

Yeah… Brock wasn’t dead, so he could deal with it; he’d had worse out on the field, anyway.

Brock dropped the dishes from dinner into the basin and set about washing them. The lights in the house were off, and the room was illuminated only by the TV playing in the living room; even with all the curtains drawn, Brock was paranoid of drawing attention to them by turning lights on.

Brock tried to hum to himself to lessen the anxiety, but he couldn’t help but part the curtains slightly so he could peer out into the backyard and make sure there was no one out there. There was nothing but the van outside, and the faint barking of a dog off in the distance. He quickly shut the curtains and dropped the bowl he had been washing into the soapy water so he could get back to Winter.

Brock was giving Winter anxiety, Brock knew. Winter had displayed it on his own a few times in the past, but never to the degree Winter had been lately. Brock knew Winter was feeding off Brock’s own anxiety, because he always seemed perfectly fine until Brock’s hands started to shake.

Brock rubbed at his face as he took a seat in the armchair next to the sofa. His eyes were closed as he tried to settle his anxiety, but they quickly snapped open when he heard a whimper coming from right beside him, and the cool touch of Winter’s metal hand pulled him from the chair. Brock was too tired. He opened his eyes to frown at Winter, not surprised to see him still holding his damned duck even when he was almost ripping Brock’s arm out of its socket. “What…?”

Winter dragged Brock away from the armchair and over to the sofa. He watched carefully as Brock sat down, as if he didn’t trust him to not go running back to the armchair, and he wouldn’t go back to his own spot until he was satisfied that Brock wasn’t going anywhere.

Brock had suspicions about this. He waited a few minutes before he stood up and wandered around the living room aimlessly. Winter wasn’t paying him any attention; his eyes were settled on the TV he had quickly become fond of.

It was when Brock sat down in the armchair again did he realise his suspicions were correct.

Winter almost _howled_ as he jumped to his feet and pulled Brock out of it once more. He didn’t pull Brock over to the sofa this time; instead, he kicked the chair onto its side and destroyed it in almost a blink of the eye, ripping it to shreds as if it were a target he had been assigned to leave unrecognisable.

Brock hoped the day would never come where he pissed Winter off.

Brock never made to stop Winter’s assault on the chair. Instead, he watched tiredly, wondering if somewhere in that damaged mind, destroying the chair brought some kind of reprieve to his troubles.

“You did good,” Brock whispered, not even knowing _why_ he was praising the action. But here he was, giving a nod of approval. “Good boy, Wints.”

A frown crossed Winter’s face now. His expression twisted into something pained. “That’s not…”

Brock murmured gently when Winter trailed off and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What’s not?”

“…” Winter met Brock’s gaze with a look of confusion. “…I don’t… think that’s my name…”

“Then what _is_ your name?” Brock prodded, curious to see how much Winter remembered.

Winter’s eyebrows furrowed even further as his frown grew. His hands clenched and unclenched, and he shifted his weight foot to foot. “…I don’t know…”

With that, Winter went back to the sofa and curled up beneath his blankets, bringing his sleeping duckling back into his flesh hand. Nothing more was said on the subject.

***

Brock wanted to go to bed early. Winter was still happily watching the TV, and Brock didn’t have any problem with that; it meant that Brock could curl up on the bed and use the flashlight of his phone to read through the Hydra files uninterrupted.

Brock’s file was as he’d expected. Personal information that was something one would think had been recorded by one hell of a creepy stalker. Brock had almost expected to find a photo of some sort of shrine dedicated to himself pinned in the back. Instead, he found himself reading off a list of every known address and phone number he’d ever had, a very extensive list of family – some he didn’t even know he’d had – and details of every foster home and the things that had occurred in them that he’d ever been through.

It was nothing more than a profile Hydra kept of every member to ensure their compliance, and how to find them if they ever tried to leave. …Just like what Brock had done…

Brock swallowed back the bile as he slipped his files beneath the mattress to hide them. He opened Winter’s next, and his eyes caught on the small black-and-white photograph pinned to the bottom, alongside an uncomfortable image of Winter sleeping in the cryofreeze.  

Brock had seen that image before. Well, not particularly the image, but rather the face – and no, he didn’t mean the face he had parted ways with just half-an-hour ago. He’d seen it somewhere else, somewhere significant. Somewhere…

“Oh, fuck…” Brock’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit fuck, Cap is gonna murder me…”

Brock knew where he had seen that face before. Back in a museum, full of life and laughter and smiles in the decades-old videos they played – not at all like the dead, broken man Brock had been caring for for twenty years.

Right there, in the file, was the name James Buchannan Barnes, and right now, Hydra was the least of his concerns because whatever they would do to him if they found him surely couldn’t compare to what Captain Rogers would do if he ever found out the circumstances between he and Winter.

Brock put the file beneath the mattress and pulled the blankets over his head. It was official. Brock Rumlow was a dead man.

***

Brock was woken by the mattress dipping beside him. He opened his eyes and rolled over to face Winter. As tired as he was, he still leant forward and stole a kiss from him. Brock was too drowsy to really think about his big discovery just an hour ago; he was exhausted, on edge, and right now, Brock just needed the comfort.

Winter didn’t return the kiss. He never did, but Brock never blamed him for it; there was so much between them – so much between Winter and _Hydra_ – and Brock would probably do the same thing if their positions were reversed.

Brock moved his hand out to stroke down Winter’s side. He smiled at the soft shudder of pleasure he felt beneath his palm. “Hey… Put the duck down for a while, will you?”

Winter hesitated, but he did as he was told. He put the duck on the bed beside him, his eyes fixed on Brock as he tried to anticipate what was expected of him now.

“Good…” Brock trailed a finger down Winter’s clothed chest. “You know, I never gave you your reward.”

Winter cocked his head to the side, and Brock couldn’t help but chuckle as he realised Winter didn’t even know what he was talking about.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Just relax, okay? You’ve been so good lately; you _definitely_ deserve a reward.”

Winter remained laying down, but he lifted himself up a little when Brock pulled his clothing from his body and tossed them carelessly on the floor beside the bed. He laid, complacent, beneath Brock’s hands, still and steady for whatever he wanted to do to him.

Winter still flinched at the first initial touches. It was a response to skin-on-skin contact nobody had been able to train out of him, but a response he could eventually get control over nonetheless.

Brock had shed his own clothes and dumped them on the floor with Winter’s. He kept Winter on his back so he could lay on his side and hold Winter to him as he pulled him in for more kisses.

Winter wasn’t a kisser, Brock knew from prior attempts. He would lay, placid and docile and let Brock ravage his mouth as much as he wanted, but never had Brock been able to get him to kiss back. Brock didn’t want to think about all the possibilities of why that was, so once he had had his fill of Winter’s mouth, he nipped and sucked his way from Winter’s chin and down his throat.

Brock’s weapon-calloused hands were rough against Winter’s body as they dragged all the way downwards, but it probably wouldn’t have made any difference with all the scarring and callouses Winter’s body carried anyway. Regardless, Winter still shivered at the contact.

“Ready?” Brock breathed into Winter’s ear. He pressed his forehead to the side of Winter’s neck, closing his eyes and whispering, “Tell me to stop if you need me to.”

Winter made no sound as Brock’s hand wrapped around his flaccid length. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensations, but it was hard for him to feel any pleasure until Brock pulled him into another kiss and then started whispering to him how good he was.

Brock rubbed his hips slightly against Winter’s thigh as he let out a soft groan. “Fuck… So good for me, Winter… Such a good boy… Been so good lately…”

Winter was silent as he always was, but Brock could still feel him responding in his hand. He rubbed his thumb around the tip of Winter’s head, massaging the specs of pre-come into the flesh and dragging his pinkie finger up and down his length as far as he could get it.

“Do you like that?” Brock kissed Winter’s chin. “Does it feel good for you?”

It was almost pointless trying to get Winter to make sound during these moments, and even more useless to try and get him to speak. But Brock could never resist trying; he still had hopes that perhaps one day, he would finally get Winter comfortable with sex. Perhaps not with _sex,_ exactly, but sex with _Brock,_ at least.

“So good, Wints…” Brock curled in on himself so he could flick his tongue against the head of Winter’s arousal. He dipped his tongue into the slit slightly, but he pulled away when he dragged his other hand down to Winter’s sac and felt them tightening. He smiled. “Come for me, Wints. Come for me.”

Winter did so. Brock wrapped his lips around Winter’s erection to swallow it all. He spilt not a single drop, enjoying the bitter taste of the only man he had willingly sucked off.

But that was as far as it went. Once Winter had softened and caught his breath, Brock pulled away as a tidal wave of emotion crashed into him. He rolled over so that his back was to Winter, his fingers clenched tightly into the bed sheets beneath them. He felt Winter’s hand on his back, as if to ask what was wrong, but Brock could only shake his head and give a shudder as he pulled away from the touch.

“Don’t… Just… Just sleep…” Brock ignored his own arousal in favour of pulling the blankets up and over his head again. “Please…”

Winter obeyed the command, but not until he had scooped his duckling back into his flesh hand and curled his metal arm around Brock to hold him close. As Winter drifted off, a strange feeling he didn’t understand filled him to the brim when he heard Brock sobbing.

A strange emotion that brought flickers of imagery into his head, so fast that he couldn’t make much out before he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Brock awoke the next morning to a steady stream of whimpers next to his head. He frowned as he rolled over to face Winter and see what was wrong. “Wints…?”

Winter was sitting with his back against the headboard of the bed, rocking back and forth with his knees drawn to his chest. His arms were wrapped tightly around his knees, and his eyes were wide and fearful as he looked all around the room as if he was searching for an escape route. He looked so much like a terrified wild animal that had been caged, and Brock felt his heart break.

It was the programming breaking down, and Winter’s brains fizzling again.

“Wints…” Brock stayed laying down to try and make himself as non-threatening as possible. He raised his hand into the air, slowly, but he made no move to reach out for Winter; he kept his hand a good distance away, knowing not to touch until he knew Winter wouldn’t kill him for it. “Hey… Talk to me, buddy; what’s goin’ on? You okay?”

Winter’s head snapped to the side so he could lock his eyes onto Brock’s form. There was pure panic in his eyes, so much so that Brock didn’t think it was humanly _possible_ to look so scared. He was mumbling under his breath, defaulting back to Russian and whatever language it was that Brock had heard him mumble all that time ago. His rocking stopped only for Winter to throw himself off the bed and curl up in the corner of the room, as if he would be able to hide from Brock’s sight if he could make himself look small enough.

“Wints.” Well, Brock wasn’t going to stand for Winter so damn terrified. Hydra may have been behind them, but Winter was still Brock’s responsibility, and contrary to Hydra often abandoning their own to save themselves, being a field commander was his proudest achievement – his teammates had left him behind back when he was young and fresh, but Brock would sooner die than abandon someone in his care.

Sometimes Brock wondered if his loyalty laid more with his men rather than with Hydra itself.

Winter gave a traumatised howl when Brock followed him off the bed. He tried to curl in on himself more as his shaking grew worse, but he couldn’t.

Brock figured things would go more smoothly if he was wearing clothes, so he quickly stopped to pick up the clothing he had thrown off the bed last night. Once he was dressed, he plucked the confused duckling from the bed that had been forgotten about in Winter’s fright, and then he moved to kneel before Winter. In his firmest, yet gentlest tone, he said, “Wints. You _know_ me. You _know_ me, buddy. Look at me, Wints.”

It took a few moments, but Winter eventually did as he was told. He didn’t look any less panicked than he had on the bed. Brock held his hand out again, never touching, but holding it between them. He watched Winter eye it warily, as if he expected for it to try and choke him any second now.

“You know me, Wints. You know me.” Brock was murmuring now. “You _trust_ me. You need to tell me what’s goin’ on for you so I can help you. Okay? You’re my responsibility; I have to make sure that you’re doin’ okay. Take my hand if you trust me, Wints. Only if you trust me.”

Brock could see the hands ticking on his wristwatch, long enough for three minutes of just soft murmuring to have passed by. He couldn’t help but feel relieved when slowly, Winter reached his flesh hand out to brush the tips of his fingers against Brock’s outstretched palm.

Brock gave a weary smile. “That’s it… You know me, Wints… You trust me… Good boy, Wints…”

When Winter stammered in panic to Brock, it was in Russian. Brock had enough of a grasp on the language from having to work with Winter to only just understand; Winter had asked where he was, and that couldn’t be good.

“You’re…” Brock chewed at the inside of his cheek as he thought about what to say. If he wasn’t careful, he would only panic Winter more, and a scared Winter was a _dangerous_ Winter. But if he was _too_ careful, he’d _still_ just panic Winter because Winter would think he’d been captured and then Brock would –

Fucking hell, why did life hate Brock so much?

“As I said, you’re my responsibility.” Brock sat down now, hoping it would help calm Winter to not feel as if he was being loomed over. “I take care of you; this is our home.”

Winter hesitated, but he mumbled again in Russian. He corrected himself to English when Brock prompted him. “Are you him…?”

Brock winced; there could only be one person Winter was referring to – and from the sounds of it, Winter didn’t even know who he was talking about. Well, he may have become a damned good liar due to Hydra, but Brock hated lying to Winter. “No, I’m not, Wints. I’m not him. Do you remember who you’re talkin’ about?”

Winter shook his head. He licked his lips before he whispered, “Something’s wrong...”

“Are you scared because you’re not with him?”

Winter didn’t answer the question; instead, he asked his own. “Why am I your responsibility…? Why am I not… _his_ …?”

Brock’s shoulders slumped; again with the hard questions he had no idea how to answer. “Well… Long time ago when I just met you, I probably would have been killed without you, and I kind of take that kind of thing seriously.”

Winter’s eyes widened. “…”

Brock decided it couldn’t really hurt to tell the story properly; Winter seemed to be calming at his voice anyway, and with a bit of luck, it would reinforce his currently-frail trust. “Yeah, I mean… I wasn’t on the team for long; think it was my… third mission with you? And all those assholes left me in the field when my leg got shot and broken; they just wanted to get away and keep themselves safe. I would have been dead easy; they had dozens of people comin’ after me, and I… I would be dead, but you came back for me, Wints. The only one out of all those selfish assholes… Even my field commander left me. Out of all people… _You_ came back for me. Shoulda seen the look on Pierce’s face when my commander told him you disobeyed orders for _me_.”

Winter looked at his lap as he processed the words. He was noticeably calmer now, probably soothed as he realised he wasn’t in any immediate danger. When he looked back at Brock, he whispered, “I was a bad person…?”

Brock shrugged. “So was I. Tryin’ not to be anymore.”

“But I…” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to put his thoughts together. He cocked his head to the side. “I…”

“You’re not a bad person ‘cause you _wanted_ to be,” Brock promised, hoping they were the right words. “You didn’t have a choice. Not like _I_ did, Winter. You were a really good person who was forced to do bad things.”

A single tear rolled down Winter’s cheek. “He’s gonna be mad at me…”

“Who’s he?” Brock knew who ‘he’ was, but still, he had to ask.

Winter frowned. “…I don’t know…”

Brock sighed. His arm was starting to get tired hanging in the air, but he didn’t want to pull it away when Winter’s fingertips were dancing across his palm. He remembered the duckling when it squeaked from his lap, so carefully, he held it out to Winter. “Here. Your duck. Stevie.”

“Stevie…” Winter whispered the word curiously as he pulled his fingers from Brock’s palm to take the duckling. He brought it to his chest and stared down at it. Brock could see the tension fleeing Winter’s body now. “Stevie… Stevie…”

Well, if this was doing Winter good, Brock may as well keep talking until Winter had calmed completely. “Do you know your name?”

Winter frowned in confusion. “You call me Wints…”

“Yeah, I do.” Well, that must be as far as the memories went for Winter, Brock assumed. “Do you like bein’ called Wints?”

Winter nodded. “Yes. But…”

“But?”

“…” Winter’s frown grew. “…I think… I have another name…”

“Maybe,” Brock agreed, not knowing if this was really the best time to tell him the truth. “Until you find out what it is, I’m just gonna keep callin’ you Wints, okay?”

Winter nodded. He stared down at the duckling and stroked a finger along its back as he tried to sort through the chaos in his mind. He looked back at Brock. “I remember you. You took me away from the chair…”

“I did,” Brock agreed. “What else do you remember about me?”

“Everything since you took me away,” Winter promised.

Brock let out a sigh of relief; at least Winter’s memories were _sort_ of intact – at least, as intact as they could be for a man in his condition. “That’s good, then. I was gettin’ worried you had no idea who I was with how worked up you were.”

Winter shook his head. He fell silent as he turned his attention to his duck for a few moments before he whispered to Brock, “I never forget you… You’re the only one I care about…”

“What about the guy you can’t remember?”

Winter frowned. “I don’t know…”

Winter seemed calmer now. Not completely, but at least he wasn’t freaking out still. Brock slowly got to his feet to go to their dresser and pull out clean clothing for them both; leaving Winter confused on the ground would achieve nothing except potentially setting him off again.

Brock came back to Winter to offer him the clothing. “Wanna get dressed and help me with somethin’, Wints?”

Winter hesitantly took the clothing with his metal hand, keeping his flesh hand curled around his duck protectively. “I want what my handlers want.”

Brock winced at the phrasing. So there definitely was still programming left in Winter, but not enough to keep his mind hostage. He shook his head. “Don’t call me that, Wints; I’m not your handler anymore. It was a fucked up thing I was doin’.”

Winter blinked those big, confused eyes of his eyes. Brock felt his heart skip a beat. “What are you, then? Still my commander?”

Brock shook his head. “I’m…”

“Are we boyfriends?” Winter cocked his head to the side.

“Umm…”

“You kiss me.”

“Yeah, but…” Brock scratched his cheek; Christ, he hadn’t been prepared for any of this when he’d gone to bed last night.

Winter’s eyebrows furrowed as he concentrated again. “…Am I a boyfriend to everyone in Hydra?”

“What?! _No_!” Brock couldn’t help but splutter.

Winter whimpered in confusion. He reached up to tug at his hair, his eyes going wide again. “But… But they all… They all…”

“You remember that?” Brock squeezed his eyes shut when he received a small, sad nod in response. He dropped himself to his knees and reached out to touch Winter’s cheek. Firmly, he promised, “Wints, _no one_ in Hydra is your boyfriend except maybe _me_. Okay? What they all did to us – I-I mean, did to _you_ … What they did to you was _not_ love.”

Winter was silent for all of two minutes before he whispered, “So why do _you_ still do it…?”

The events of last night came crashing back into Brock, reminding him of just how much he loathed himself and the person he was. He’d known, every time he initiated sexual acts with Winter, that Winter probably had no idea what he even wanted. Winter was used to being used, raped, laying docilely while he was being abused.

Brock was supposed to protect Winter, but he was probably the worst of them all because at least Hydra had been open in that all they cared about was raping Winter – but Brock…

Well, Brock just took advantage every time.

“Did you not want what happened last night…?” Brock tried to swallow past the golf ball in his throat.

“…I don’t know…”

And there it was, the only proof Brock needed that he was a fucking _monster_.

Brock was about to get to his feet, to leave Winter alone so Brock couldn’t hurt him again, but he stayed when Winter continued whispering.

“But you’re the only one who’s never hurt me like that…” Winter’s eyes were filled with trust again. Brock had to close his own eyes once more so he didn’t cry.

“That’s not really true, Wints…” Brock dragged his fingers through his hair as his old friend Anxiety made a return. “…I… I _have_ hurt you, but you probably can’t remember it…”

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” Winter whispered, his trust never faltering.

“I have, Wints.” Brock’s hands clenched into fists as he recalled the memory. His eyes burned with hot tears of anger as he grit his teeth and growled, “It was a fuckin’ _initiation_! Those sick fucks…! Made me and the other new recruits fuck you until you couldn’t move!”

Winter’s face took on the familiar dead look. Brock felt relieved at seeing it; he probably would have broken down had he been forced to keep seeing all the trust he didn’t deserve.

Brock’s eyes narrowed as he spat, “They wouldn’t let me back out, but I should have tried harder! I shouldn’t have done what I did to you, Winter! I _raped_ you!”

Winter was silent for so long, Brock was sure Winter now hated him and was planning the most slow and agonising death possible for him. But instead, Winter finally whispered, “They would have killed you if you didn’t.”

“Why are you defending my actions?!” Brock snapped. He felt like he was going to throw up as he realised that Winter had been stripped of so much, he probably had no self-respect _left_ to even care about who had raped him and why. He probably just accepted it as something that had been done to him and blamed himself or thought he deserved it somehow.

Brock felt bile climb his throat briefly; he could certainly understand what it was like to think that way, and how much easier it was to _just stop caring_.

“After what I did to you! Why don’t you hate me, Winter?! Choke me and snap my neck and be fuckin’ done with me?!” Brock wanted to grab Winter’s shoulders and shake sense into him.

“Because you have never given me reason to,” Winter whispered. “You have only ever given me reason to trust you. You protected me when no one else would. When you said… About how I was the only one who came back for you… It was because you were the only one who came back for _me_.”

“What are you…?” Fuck, did Winter remember a lot more than he’d ever let on? The wipes were supposed to help with that – unless the techs played some sick game with his mind and liked to see how much traumatic memory of Hydra he could retain before his brains finally melted out of his ears.

Maybe it wasn’t even that; maybe Winter talking about all of this was unlocking memories Hydra _had_ locked away.

“They put me in my restraints in the van because I broke someone’s arm.” Winter’s eyes were still wide, but he wasn’t shaking now. Probably a good thing. “They were too scared of me to feed me or take me to the toilet. But you came and sat next to me and you… You weren’t _scared_ of me. _You_ looked after me, and you weren’t even my field commander at the time…”

Brock looked away to the side so he could avoid eye contact. “Well, it’s not like I could be scared of ya when you were restrained… And ‘sides, I didn’t like the way they were treating you – reminded me of the foster homes I’d been in, and I… I didn’t have it in me to be a dick to you…”

“Are you…” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed as he licked his lips, “…like me…?”

Brock nodded. Ever so slowly, he reached out to ruffle Winter’s hair. “More than you’ll probably ever know, Wints.”

The conversation was getting too personal now. The only thing Brock hated more than thinking about his past was talking about it, so with a careful change of subject, he got Winter to his feet and dressed him.

Once Brock slipped the red hoodie jacket onto Winter’s body, he grabbed the cap and fixed it on top of Winter’s head. He gave a fond smile. “There. You look good, Wints. I really like this outfit on you.”

Winter cocked his head to the side. He didn’t speak, but he still gazed down at his body to see what Brock liked so much. So they were back to Winter being silent again, were they? Well, Brock could deal with that – in fact, he’d like it; he’d never been big on talking, and all he really needed was Winter next to him to feel content.

Brock quickly dressed himself in clean clothing before he took Winter’s hand and led him to the kitchen. He would have preferred a shower for them both, but with how flighty Winter still seemed to be, it could wait for a bit later.

“I’m gonna try you on a new food, Wints,” Brock promised as he sat Winter down at the table. “It’s oatmeal; you’ve had enough soup and protein shakes that you might be able to handle the really soft stuff now. You really gotta tell me if it hurts your stomach, though, buddy.”

“With honey.” Winter sat down at the table, Stevie nestled into his hair, as he watched Brock at the stovetop, preparing the food in a pot. Brock wondered if he had even made the request consciously.

When Brock came to sit at the table with Winter a few minutes later, he had a single bowl of grey-looking goop that reminded Winter of the stuff the Hydra techs used to pump into his stomach through the tubes. Brock wrapped his arm around Winter’s shoulders hugged him tight before he kissed the top of Winter’s head and sat down next to him.

“We’re gonna share it ‘cause I’m not really hungry and I couldn’t be fucked cookin’ more.” Brock took the spoon out of the bowl and scooped up the goop. He’d managed to teach Winter over time how to eat off a spoon, but he’d always been handfed by Brock, and hadn’t yet been taught how to feed himself. “Here. Take the spoon. Try and feed yourself.”

Winter did as instructed, but he smacked the spoon into his eye and recoiled with a hiss. Hydra had gotten him so fucked up, he really didn’t have any idea where his fucking _mouth_ was, Brock realised – not unless someone else was in charge and manhandling him. He seemed to have no problem with everyone else’s mouths judging from all the murder-suicides he had staged over the decades, but this didn’t make Brock feel any better.

“Here.” Brock grabbed Winter’s wrist, keeping his fingers firmly around it as he guided Winter’s hand to his mouth. “That’s your mouth. That’s where the food goes. Try again.”

It went like that for a few moments, but Winter had always been a fast learner, and Brock gave him very firm praise when he successfully managed to feed himself. He took the spoon back now so he could take a few bites of the oatmeal himself, giving Winter’s stomach time to adjust to the new food.

They didn’t finish the oatmeal; Winter still wasn’t allowed to eat much, and Brock’s mental state wasn’t feeling up to it, either. Brock got up to wash the bowl and finish the dishes from last night he hadn’t cleaned. “So, what you wanna do today, Wints?”

“I want what you want,” Winter repeated himself as he reached to take Stevie back into his flesh palm and put the duckling onto the table. He cocked his head to the side as he regarded his new pet. “Does Stevie eat oatmeal?”

“Nah. Go get some grass for him.” Winter nodded. He did as he was told, returning with enough grass in his hand that Brock had expected him to have raided someone’s garden waste bin for it all. Brock came to the table, unable to deny his curiosity for the little guy. He reached out with one hand to poke it with the tip of his index finger, but before he could make contact, Winter had grabbed his wrist and ever so gently pushed his hand back to his own person. “I’m not allowed to touch the duck?”

Winter nodded. He scooped Stevie up into his flesh hand and held him to his chest as if to prove his point. “You’ll scare him.”

Brock couldn’t help but snort. “You see the irony in that statement there, bud?”

When Winter shifted uncomfortably before he hooked his metal arm behind his back, Brock felt like the world’s biggest asshole; here Winter was, being so _normal_ for once – and Brock had to go and make him feel bad about himself…

“I’m sorry, Wints.” Brock kissed the top of Winter’s head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Winter stared blankly down at the table for a few seconds before he whispered, “It’s okay… I’m scared of the metal arm, too…”

Yep. _Definitely_ world’s biggest asshole.

***

Their day had been filled in by Brock _somehow_ managing to talk Winter into leaving Stevie at home so he could come for a walk, and Brock finding a good deal on a car sale so he could finally ditch the van somehow. Once they were driving away in a beat-up Ford F-150, they’d gone and bought supplies for a security system.

Winter had insisted on the security, and really, Brock wasn’t going to protest; with what they had ran away from, it was really only a matter of time before they were found. Hell, it probably wouldn’t have even mattered how far they’d ran away; no one ever escaped Hydra, and they’d come knocking at the door soon enough.

The neighbours watched them warily through the windows. Winter stored the information away for later until he could decide if they were going to be a threat or not, but Brock mostly ignored it; it was probably the most unusual thing they’d seen all year going off what the store clerk had said that no one ever bought from the security section because of how quiet the town was.

A brave neighbour ventured over just after lunch, and from where Winter was curled up on the porch, with Stevie in his hair as he never let Brock out of his sight, Winter was tense. Brock acted immediately. He jumped down from the ladder and put his hand on Winter’s knee, shaking his head. “Easy, big guy… Steady now. Stand down.”

Winter obeyed, but not happily; his eyes stayed locked on the newcomer, ready to protect Brock the second he was given reason to.

The only reason Winter didn’t rip the man’s head off when he shook Brock’s hand was because Brock was squeezing Winter’s shoulder, an old combat signal he recognised as an order to stay put.

“I’m sorry about him.” Brock was frowning as he nodded his head at Winter, referring to the deadly glare he was shooting that looked even sharper than the blades he used to be armed with. “He’s, uh… He’s very protective of me…”

The man smiled warmly at the both of them. “No worries; it’s nice to see you have such a caring boyfriend. I’m Doug, by the way.”

Brock was so caught off-guard by his neighbour’s statement, he didn’t even think to give a false name. “Brock… This is, uh… This is James…”

“Nice to meet you both!” Doug seemed like a nice man, middle-aged and balding, but friendly enough. His eyes fixed on Stevie, and he reached out to pat the duck.

Brock couldn’t apologise enough after he’d thrown his arms around Winter and held him in place when Winter had lunged. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! He doesn’t like anyone touchin’ the duck! I’m so sorry!”

Doug looked startled, a little wary, even, but still, he gave a small smile. “I really should have asked first.”

“No, it’s – he’s – Wints – James just is really very protective; we were in the military; bad shit happened and we got out and… We’ve never been the same since.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, really; it was just… several different truths blended into one.  

Doug seemed accepting at that. He nodded. “I see. I’m sorry to hear that; you seem like a nice man.”

Brock winced. He didn’t know how to respond, so he focused on playing with Winter’s hair and chewing at his lip. He frowned when he noticed for the first time that Winter had headlice; he’d have to go out and get stuff for that later once he got Winter settled for the day.

Brock was glad that Doug didn’t stay for long; he’d never been big on socialising, but everything with Hydra had drained him of all the socialising he had been capable of, and he just wanted to be alone with Winter.

Brock finished the installations not long before dinnertime. Winter hadn’t left his post once, watching carefully every pedestrian who walked by and memorising every car that came and went. He did a quick sweep of the parameter once Brock was cleaning up the mess, reporting any vulnerabilities he found and making a note to keep an eye on those points until Brock fixed them.

Winter stayed close while Brock made their dinner. He sat the table with Stevie, watching the duck swimming in the small container of water Brock had given it earlier. He thoughts went back to earlier that day, and about what the neighbour had said.

“Are we really boyfriends?” Winter sounded so confused, Brock couldn’t help but turn around to face him.

Brock honestly didn’t know what he was supposed to say. For all he knew, Winter wasn’t even _gay_ and had just had it forced on him for decades. “Do you _want_ to be boyfriends?”

For the longest time, Winter stayed silent. When he replied, he sounded so lost, Brock felt sorry for him. “I think I had a boyfriend once. …I think…”

Not that it answered any question that had been asked, but Brock still nodded acceptingly. “Maybe, buddy.”

Winter was silent again for a while. And then… “Is my name really James?”

“Uh…”Again, Brock was lost for words, so he tried the same approach again. “Would you _like_ it if it was?”

“No.” Winter shook his head. “No, it doesn’t sound right. I don’t like James.”

“Yeah… Yeah, you’re more of a Wints.” Brock gave a weary smile before he turned back to the stove. “Hold tight, buddy; dinner won’t be far away.”

Winter turned his attention back to Stevie now. He dropped his chin onto the table next to the container, and when the duck jumped out and ran to his face with its wings flapping and happy squeaks sounding, Winter’s lips did that thing where they twitched into something that could almost be a smile.

Maybe Winter wasn’t smiling, but Brock couldn’t mistake the way Winter nuzzled his cheek against the duckling to be anything but pure happiness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are potential, slight spoilers for the first season of Agents of SHIELD in this chapter. I purposely held this chapter back to work around this and strike a balance where, if you haven't watched AoS, you shouldn't work out who the character is, and if you HAVE watched AoS, you should know who it is. If you haven't seen AoS, don't mind spoilers, and want to know who it is, just ask and I can catch you up. I just don't want to ruin it for anyone who doesn't know, and at the time of posting this story, this wasn't planned so there were no tags to warn ahead of time.

Brock missed DC. He missed the bustling city and having a job to get out of bed for every morning. He had had a few people he considered friends there, as antisocial as he had been, and he couldn’t deny that it was a lonely life out here where he felt too isolated for it to be comforting. 

Winter helped with the loneliness. He helped fill the void that being without a job created; caring for him and making sure he was okay gave Brock purpose, and it was a reason for him to get out of bed in the mornings. Brock was pretty sure that without Winter to keep him going, Brock would have swallowed a bullet already.

But as much as Winter kept Brock going, Winter was having his own problems as well - big ones that made Brock worried about how easily he could come back from the brainwashing.

“Wints.” Brock entered the living room with a spoon and a jar of Nutella in hand. He set about drawing all the curtains now that the sun was setting, and once he had done that, he turned back to face the sofa. “Wints, I got somethin’ for you.”

Winter didn’t move from where he laid on the sofa, his face buried into the back of it as he kept his flesh arm wrapped protectively around his duck. Brock knew he wasn’t sleeping; he had been on the sofa all day, silent and withdrawn and trying to get through the fourth programming breakdown he had suffered.

Winter wasn’t well, Brock knew. He couldn’t blame the poor guy; he’d probably be depressed as well if his brains were melting out of his ears, too.

Brock moved to the sofa. He put the Nutella and the spoon down quietly on the coffee table so he could go back to their bedroom and gather Winter’s favourite blanket; soft, warm, and decorated with kittens. Brock still wasn’t sure if it was the blanket itself or the kittens that brought him comfort, but it was the first and only thing – besides Stevie the duckling, of course – Winter had let himself _want_. Brock had been only too happy to buy it for him once he realised Winter wasn’t letting the packaging go any time soon. 

Brock brought the blanket out to the living room and tucked Winter in, careful not to cover the duckling as well lest he upset the big guy at his duck being touched again. Once that was done, he kissed the top of Winter’s head, grabbed the spoon and Nutella, and sat himself on the sofa so Winter could rest his head on his lap.

“We’re watchin’ Game of Thrones.” Brock grabbed the TV remote from beside Winter and turned the TV on. It illuminated the darkened room, the volume so low, Brock would still hear someone sneaking around outside once they were close enough to be a threat - even back in DC, the paranoia had still been there. “Rollins always told me to watch it, and it starts in… ten minutes.”

Winter didn’t reply, but when Brock played with his hair and stroked his head, he closed his eyes and pressed into the touch. He kept them shut until the cool metal of the spoon pressed against his lips. He didn’t question what it was on the end of the spoon; he sucked it obediently - _trustingly -_ into his mouth and licked until Brock was pulling away a spoon that looked like it had just come out of the dishwasher after a clean.

Brock chuckled as Winter licked his lips. “You like that? It’s Nutella. Murphy got me onto it. It’s close enough to chocolate in my opinion, and chocolate’s meant to be good for when you’re feelin’ like shit. At least that’s what Murphy says anyway.”

Still, Winter was silent. He hugged Stevie closer to him and nuzzled more into Brock’s stomach as he listened to Brock eating as well. His heart was still racing, feelings inside of him confusing him as they brought on urges he didn’t understand.

The most disconcerting thing of all was to realise that the curtains were drawn, which meant night was falling; it had only felt like he’d laid down five minutes ago that morning…

Brock looked down when he heard a whimper from his lap. He frowned and ruffled Winter’s hair before he dipped the spoon back into the jar and brought it to Winter’s lips again. Winter didn’t accept the entire spoonful this time, but that didn’t matter; Brock was only too happy to eat what he’d left behind himself.

Brock sighed. His fingertips massaged gentle circles into Winter’s scalp as he murmured, “I know what you’re goin’ through, Wints… Not the… Not the whole _memory_ shit or anythin’ like that. But I know you’re scared and confused and probably very depressed… And I get _that_.”

Winter whimpered again.

Brock moved his hand to Winter’s mouth to wipe Nutella from his lips with his thumb. He licked his thumb clean and took another two bites from the jar before he said, “I don’t talk about this shit with _anyone_ , Wints. Not Rollins, not Pierce – not even Murphy. Westfahl was a bastard and found my medication years ago and spread it around Hydra, though. Almost cost me my position as field commander.”

Winter turned his head so slightly to look up at Brock, the movement was almost unnoticeable. “…”

Brock frowned as he tried to sort through his thoughts. He shook his head. “What I’m sayin’ is, you’re gonna feel like shit for a while, Wints. Maybe you’ll _always_ feel like shit. But… So do I. I get ya. I feel like shit every day – some days my alarm would go off in the mornin’ and I didn’t even wanna get up and go to work. I would just lay in bed starin’ up at the roof wantin’ to die.”

It took a few moments, but slowly, Winter rolled himself onto his back so he could stare into Brock’s face. He clutched Stevie to his chest, protected by his flesh hand as always – by this point, Brock was pretty certain that the metal hand would never touch the duckling, not even by mistake – and whispered, “Is that what I am doing…?”

“What?” Brock brushed hair out of Winter’s face.

“Wanting to die…”

“I don’t know,” Brock whispered. It was the truth; he didn’t have full insight into Winter’s mind and how it worked – not that he wanted to... “What are you feeling?”

“It doesn’t make any sense…!” Winter hissed, as if it pained him immensely to have to think about it. “I… It doesn’t make any _sense_!”

“I know, bud… I know.”

“I feel empty, but… _not_ empty…!” Winter gave another whimper as he reached up to pull at his hair. He stopped only when Brock disentangled his hands and put them back at his sides. “I don’t understand! What am I feeling?! What do I do?! _I don’t understand_!”

Winter was howling now. Brock was finally seeing for himself why exactly the Hydra techs had controlled him right down to his very urinating habits; Winter simply didn’t exist inside. He was made to take orders and be controlled; had Hydra left him to fend for himself, he probably would have thrown himself off the nearest cliff in crazed confusion because he couldn’t understand that he was _thirsty_.

“Tell me what you need,” Brock soothed. “I can’t help you unless you tell me, Wints.”

“I need you to tell me what to do!” Winter howled again. “I need orders!”

In a heartbreaking way, it was true – and not just for this current moment. Brock knew Winter wasn’t coping well without orders – without _purpose_ or _validation_. He’d seen it even back with Hydra, where they’d been holed up in safehouses for too long, and Winter would curl up in the corner muttering to himself because nobody had told him what to do or made him feel useful.

It was probably why Winter truly hadn’t cared much when Brock had told him he’d raped him; in a sick, fucked up way, Winter probably didn’t even _see_ it as rape – more as an extension of his purpose. Trying to explain to him that it _was_ rape had probably done nothing but confuse him, implying that Winter had had _choice_ in the matter when he knew that no, he _didn’t_ have any choice in _anything_ when it came to Hydra.

“Okay. Okay.” Brock had to think fast. “You need orders, Wints? Well… Okay; here’s your orders. Two orders, actually. Can you do that for me?”

Winter nodded so desperately, it was heart-wrenching to see.

“Okay.” Brock hoped he was doing the right thing; he really did. “Your first order. You have to tell me what goes on inside you, Wints. If somethin’s makin’ you unsettled or upsettin’ you, you have to tell me so I can work out what it is and try an’ fix it. Okay? Even if you have to wake me up at night and tell me. It’s very important that I know these things. Okay?”

Winter’s eyes were so wide as he nodded hastily, Brock wondered if they would bulge out of his skull.

“Good. Good boy, Wints. Your second order… It’s not very excitin’, so sorry about that. But your second order is to watch this stupid TV show with me and tell me what you think about it.” Brock rubbed at his face, hoping it would be enough to tide Winter over until he could work out how to work around these specific needs. “Rollins spoke the fuckin’ world about the shit, so it had better be good. Every time the show goes on break, we’re gonna talk about it, okay?”

Winter finally looked relaxed now that he knew what was expected of him. Brock hoped the storm was over, but knowing Winter, it was never that simple.

“I feel like my stomach is being torn apart, and my heart will not slow down.” Winter raised his flesh hand into the air to show Brock. “Is this why my hand will not stop shaking? Have I been poisoned?”

“No, you haven’t been poisoned,” Brock promised. “It’s anxiety. I get that, too, and you’re probably pickin’ it up from me.”

“Anxiety?”

Brock nodded. “It’s like really shitty nervousness. Here, let me rub your neck and you’ll feel better.”

Winter did indeed feel better as Brock rubbed the tension out of his neck. He laid quietly now, rolling onto his side to face the TV when Brock told him the show was starting.

It really didn’t take long for Brock to regret listening to Rollins’ recommendation; he may have once been Hydra, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be confronted with things that hit too close to home for him.

Brock’s palms were sweaty as he closed his eyes and tried to block out the all-too-realistic screams of the woman being beaten on screen; the shit it was bringing back into his mind made him want to throw up. He jolted when he remembered Winter, realising that if the show was getting to _him,_ how was it affecting _Winter?_

Strangely enough, Winter didn’t seem bothered in the least – but Brock quickly realised why that was when he tried to get Winter’s attention, and Winter gave him that dead-eyed look as he muttered in Russian about compliance.

Well fuck, Rumlow, fuckin’ genius, now the damned guy is fuckin’ dissociatin’ for trustin’ in Rollins’ shitty tastes in TV.

“Hey!” Brock turned the TV off before he shook Winter’s shoulder. “Snap out of it, Wints! Don’t fuckin’ dissociate on me just ‘cause Rollins is a fuckin’ moron! Hey!”

Winter slowly came to, and when he did, it was with tired eyes and an expression that aged him twenty years. He shook his head, and when he spoke, it was in that nervous tone he used whenever he was afraid he had disobeyed and would be punished. “I’m sorry, Commander… I don’t like that show…”

Brock couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah… Yeah, me too, Wints…”

They’d found another TV show to watch, a cartoon in where a guy found himself a thousand years into the future and adventured with his idiotic alien crew. Brock, who had never been big on TV in the first place, couldn’t say it was amazing, but it was enough to hold his attention, even if the jokes were shitty at times. Winter seemed fascinated if his wide-eyed, curious expression was anything to go by.

But as peaceful as it had been, Brock knew only too well that life had a habit of screwing him over every time he finally felt a bit of happiness in his life.

Winter became alert before the security system even triggered. He lifted his head from Brock’s lap and stared at the curtains at their sides. He was holding Stevie close again, almost as if he were shielding the duck from something unseen. Brock was taking the handgun from the coffee table immediately before turning off the TV to douse them in darkness.

“How many?” Brock whispered.

Winter cocked his head to the side. Brock could feel him rather than seeing him turn his head slowly, as if he was tracking something only he could see. Sometimes Brock envied super soldier hearing. “One.”

Brock reached out to the coffee table again to feel blindly for the cell phone that was always left there for moments like these; he’d thrown his old phone away long ago so it couldn’t be tracked, and bought a cheap one solely for the purpose of the security system. He opened the surveillance camera app, finding someone now at the front door.

“Hydra,” Brock whispered to Winter as he caught sight of the dark hair, malicious eyes, and twisted smirk that was staring up into the camera. “I know him. He’s fucked up. His name’s… Fuck, I can’t remember it – but the guy would creep me out every time we spoke…”

“I will kill him.” Winter was vibrating against Brock, like a wild animal eager to rip apart the humans that had caged it.

“No, don’t. That’s a really bad idea; this guy doesn’t work alone.” Brock groped around for Winter’s hip. He squeezed it, silently telling him to stay put. “This guy has screws loose, but Garrett’s fuckin’ insane – last thing we need is _him_ comin’ after us instead.”

“I will kill them both.” Winter growled. “They want to hurt you. I will kill them.”

“They might not be here to hurt me, Wints.” From the camera app, Brock could see their visitor pacing back and forth by the doorstep. He wondered if it really was only him, after all, or if he had more men coming in from somewhere else. “He was a Hydra mole, but if Hydra was goin’ to send someone, I don’t think they’d have sent _him_. They would have sent someone more ingrained to Hydra.”

“...” Winter’s vibrating grew worse. Brock felt like he was trying to hold back the inevitable. 

The doorbell rang. Brock swallowed down the anxiety and fell back into field commander mode as easily as he always had; he may have not had a team to command anymore, but he wasn’t going to fail Winter. He squeezed Winter again, ordering him to stay in place as he stood and approached the door warily. He kept the handgun in front of him, knowing their guest couldn’t be trusted. When he opened the front door, he was greeted by an amused smirk.

“Not the kind of welcome I was expecting, really.” The smirk widened. “Honestly, I was expecting you to be long dead, being alone with the asset for as long as you have.” 

Brock returned the sneer. “What makes you think that, dumb shit? You top shit now ‘cause you fucked over Coulson and his team so easily? That poor kid _idolised_ you from what I heard - must have broken his fuckin’ heart to hear you killed that SHIELD bitch from the Hub.” 

“Sentiment. Besides, I’m sure he got over that when I dropped him out of the Bus.” The way he so sardonically said the word pissed Brock right off, and all he wanted was to shoot the fucker then and there. “By the way, have you heard, Agent Rumlow? Your men are dead. They might have had a chance at survival if you hadn’t run away like a coward - had you been there _leading_ them when we took SHIELD down, they might not have died such meaningless deaths.”

“Fuck up, asshole,” Brock snarled. The guilt and self-loathing ripped him up from the inside, and it took everything he had to not let his eyes get moisty with tears. “Did you go through the effort of trackin’ me down just to tell me that I’m a fuck up? ‘Cause sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve been aware of that my whole life.” 

“Oh, no. I didn’t come here for _you_ , actually. Not sure anyone really cares about your insignificant life, really.” The man’s eyes glinted maliciously, and the soft tone that came abruptly wasn’t any more soothing. “He’s kind of a legend, isn’t he? Even amongst Hydra. I never got to see him once; I thought he was just a myth to scare the newbies.”

Brock clicked on quickly; if this guy were here for Winter, then... He pulled back the safety on the handgun. 

“Hey, no need for that, Agent Rumlow; we’re all on the same team together.” His sneer was sickening. “I’m just saying, it’s almost a shame something so mythical was led by a piss-poor excuse of a Hydra agent. I’ll happily take him off your hands; Garrett’s willing to pay almost any price necessary for him.” 

“You’re going to turn around and fuck off out of my sight in ten seconds or I’m waterin’ my lawn your blood,” Brock snarled. 

But the Hydra agent wasn’t leaving. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that! What use is he gathering dust in there? He should be out on the field breaking skulls! We can give him that. We can give him what he was made for - what he _needs_.”

“He doesn’t need anythin’ except for you to piss off!”

“The legendary Winter Soldier, playing house with a washed-up STRIKE commander who let his men run to their deaths to save his own hide. How _sweet_. Makes you wonder how Captain Rogers would take the news of his precious Barnes being retired and kept as a sex slave - can’t think of anything else you’d want him for if you don’t want him on the field, and you STRIKE Agents always _were_ weird with him...”

Brock was more alert than ever now. His eyes narrowed dangerously. “How do you know about all of that...?” 

“Well, it wasn’t hard to figure out reading his files.”

“I took his files with me.”

“Clearly not all of them.” That eyeroll made Brock want to break this bastard’s fucking neck. “You can hand him over and he’ll have a good life doing what he’s good at. Or someone can... I don’t know, _tip_ Captain Rogers off that Barnes is being held captive by a SHIELD traitor. I’m sure he’d be more of a threat than what’s left of Hydra coming after you, Agent Rumlow.”

“You’re a dead man if you tell him shit!”

The Hydra agent shrugged. “Maybe. But so will you. Hand him over and I’ll let you live; we could really use him as a bodyguard right now. You’ll really regret it if you don’t. I’m not asking, Agent Rumlow.”

“Neither am I,” Brock hissed. He stepped away from the door and left a clearing to the Hydra agent, a silent signal he had trained into Winter long ago to unleash hell.

Winter did so, coming out of nowhere with teeth and claws bared like a vicious jungle cat protecting its young. There were gunshots, from both Brock’s gun and the Hydra agent’s, but Brock wasn’t too concerned; he could hear the bullets deflecting off Winter’s metal arm as he charged forward and used it to protect himself from the barrage of ammunition. 

Winter had grabbed their attacker, judging by the yelp and sudden cease of gunfire. Brock stopped firing also as he awaited the satisfying crack of bones that would undoubtedly come from the neck, but it never came; instead, Brock was knocked from his feet at the sudden shockwave blast that left his ears ringing and blood dripping from his nose and ears. 

Winter had taken the impact directly, but Brock wasn’t concerned for him; Winter had taken far worse, and a little shockwave wasn’t going to hurt him much - him getting back on his feet without hesitation and chasing the attacker away from the house proved that. 

When Winter came back to Brock, Brock had just gotten shakily back to his feet. His ears were still ringing, but he was ignoring it in favour of checking Winter over. “You okay?” 

Winter nodded, but there was an unusual unsteadiness to him as he almost staggered back to Brock’s side. Brock could hear the neighbours making an appearance as they ran up the pathway to the front door, but he didn’t care about that – not when, without warning, Winter collapsed at his feet and started gasping for breath. 

“Oh, Christ, no…” Brock grabbed the metal arm to inspect it beneath the moonlight shining through the front door on them. It was damaged, wisps of smoke billowing past the metal plating, accompanied by the smell of something burning. “Fuckin’ stupid bastard…” 

“Hey, you guys okay?!” The neighbours had arrived, still dressed for bed and panicked by the commotion they had heard. “Some guy just came running out of here!” 

“Don’t worry ‘bout that; help me get him to the bed,” Brock grunted as he moved to hook his arms beneath Winter’s shoulders and pull his torso up and into the air. “He’s hurt.” 

“You’re bleeding!” It was a woman now, one that Brock hadn’t met yet. Her eyes were wide and fearful as she pointed to the bloodstained sleeve of Brock’s jacket. “You’ve been shot!” 

It was true, but Brock hadn’t even noticed until she’d pointed it out. Brock pointedly decided he didn’t like her. “Doesn’t matter; just help me move him!” 

It was a team effort to move Winter – three-hundred pounds of pure muscle wasn’t exactly _light._ Once they got him onto the bed and someone had switched the light on, Brock could see what had happened; that bastard hadn’t come unprepared. From the looks of the damage to Winter’s metal plating, a shockwave explosive had been wedged between two of the plates and activated, damaging it from the inside rather than the out. 

Fuck, that bastard was smarter than Brock had ever realised. 

But that didn’t explain the way Winter was acting as if he’d been _poisoned_. Brock knew that there was a fail-safe inside of Winter’s arm in the case that Hydra had ever lost complete control over Winter, and it was possible that it had been activated from the blast.

If it had been, then that meant there was a huge dose of cyanide lethal even for Winter pumping through his body as they spoke. 

“I need someone’s phone.” Brock didn’t take his eyes from Winter as he reached his hand out blindly. He didn’t look at or even thank whoever handed him their phone; he just dialled in a number he knew well and hoped this wasn’t going to end in disappointment; what if they had been killed or arrested after the fall of SHIELD? Winter was _fucked_ if they had been. 

“Hello…?” The voice on the other end of the line was sleepy. Was it really that late already? Brock hadn’t even realised; he was just relieved to hear the old, familiar voice. “Who’s this…?” 

“Murphy.” Brock’s commanding tone was one not easily forgotten; Murphy wouldn’t be the first to do so. “I need your help.” 

“Rumlow?” There was excitement in Murphy’s tone, and Brock knew him well enough to know that if he didn’t act quick, Murphy was never going to shut up and let him get a word in.

“Yeah, we’ll catch up later, asshole!” Brock snapped. “Just tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do with the fail-safe activated!” 

Murphy was silent for all of three seconds before he lost the excitement and became serious. “Hospital is priority; Winter would metabolise a normally-lethal dosage too quickly for it to do him much harm, but he’s got far too much in his system for even _him_ to walk it off.” 

“Hospital’s not an option,” Brock growled; as far as he knew, the closest hospital was almost two hours away. “Just tell me how to shut it off so I can try and stop the fuckin’ shit from leakin’ into him!” 

Murphy hummed. “If you act quick enough, you might be able to close the valve before all of it releases, yes… Okay, Commander, how did it activate?” 

“Shockwave. The inside of the arm’s all busted up.” 

“Right.” It was moments like these Brock was glad he had at least _one_ tech friend from Hydra. “You’re going to need some supplies.” 

As Murphy gave Brock the list, Brock barked the items off to his neighbours to bring them to him. Once he had everything he needed, he put Murphy on loudspeaker and followed his instructions on opening the metal plating and getting to the fail-safe. He deactivated it – how he did so, he would never know – and then worked on combating the cyanide Winter had already been pumped with. 

If it wasn’t for Murphy walking Brock through everything, Brock knew there would have been no way Winter could have survived. It was the first time Brock wished Murphy was there so he could give the man a hug and bottle of wine. 

“You’re _sure_ he’s going to be okay, Murphy?” Brock finished the last of the medical treatment. His eyes were focused on Winter’s face, pale and sweaty, but at least his breathing had evened out a little as he slept off the poisoning.

“As long as you deactivated the fail-safe before it emptied into him, he should metabolise it,” Murphy promised. “He can metabolise _a lot_ from the tests we’ve run on him. But you need to keep an eye on him and keep him resting – if you can, get him somewhere and have a nurse check him over in case his organs have been damaged, Rumlow.”

“I will, Murph. …Thanks for the help…” With that, Brock ended the call and gave the phone back to its owner.

Brock was careful when he pulled the blankets over Winter, doing his best not to disturb any of the makeshift IVs or the damage to the metal arm; Brock was sure there was pressure sensation at the very least in that arm, and if Winter could actually feel pain in it or not, he’d never thought to ask. 

Brock turned back to his neighbours. He was feeling sick and woozy from his own wound that hadn’t had any attention and was still bleeding out. His face was pale and his vision spotty as he dropped himself down onto the edge of the bed and sighed. He said nothing as he shrugged his jacket off and pulled his shirt from over his head. He ignored the gasps of surprise from his neighbours as he revealed his scarred and beaten torso to the room; he had bigger problems than caring what people thought of his body.

“Bandages,” Brock grunted as he pressed at the gunshot wound carefully. He hissed in pain as he realised he was going to have to dig the bullet out. “Alcohol. A fuckin’ big pair of tweezers, too. And somethin’ to stitch this shit closed.”

When Brock was given the items, he sent everyone back to their own homes; it had been shaming enough having them around while he worked on Winter – and he wasn’t fucking stupid enough to think that no questions would be asked; it was just a miracle the police hadn’t been involved – and no way was he letting them stay while he dug a fucking bullet from his arm.

Brock got the bullet out eventually and soaked the wound in rubbing alcohol. Experience with Hydra had told him alcohol on an open wound was a bad idea, but without a proper first aid kid on hand, he didn’t have much choice. He wrapped a bandage around the wound and hoped for the best; maybe if he were lucky, he wouldn’t wake up in the morning and he could be done with everything.

The stress of what happened had driven Brock’s mind almost completely blank; all that mattered right now was Winter asleep next to him, slowly coming down from the poisoning, and the bleeding slowing in his own arm.

Brock was exhausted. Truly, utterly exhausted. He climbed under the blankets and moved close to Winter to keep him safe, and the second his eyes closed, he was out to it.

When Brock would wake in the morning, he would have forgotten completely why his nightmares had been filled with Captain Rogers coming after them to take Winter away from him forever.


	8. Chapter 8

Brock had quit smoking almost ten years go.  _ Had,  _ being the keyword. Back then, the smoking had been nothing more than a crutch – and the same could most likely be said for now, considering Brock hadn’t expected to smoke his way to almost half an entire pack in just one morning when he’d gone out to buy them. 

In the three days that had passed since their unexpected visit, Brock hadn’t been questioned once by anyone. He knew it was still on their minds, though; while some neighbours observed him curiously now whenever he was outside, other neighbours avoided him like the plague and would draw the curtains immediately if they caught sight of him.

Brock couldn’t really blame them; civilians did tend to get frightened easily when shit went down near them. 

One good thing that had come out of it was Brock being back in contact with Murphy. Brock had gone out to buy a second throwaway handset that he’d used to keep Murphy updated on Winter’s condition – and of course, Isaac Murphy being Isaac Murphy, it really hadn’t taken long for him to get their address out of Brock and then set off on his journey to check Winter over.

Brock knew Murphy wouldn’t be far away now; it was even plausible that the chatty fucker would show his face while Brock was still curled up on the porch steps, his head resting against the bannister as he smoked his fifth cigarette in as many minutes.

Well,  _ someone  _ came to visit Brock on his fifth cigarette, but it wasn’t Murphy.

“What are you doin’ out of bed, Wints…?” Brock didn’t turn to look at Winter as he tapped the ash off the end of the cigarette and into the ashtray at his side. He took another drag when he felt Winter snuggling in against his side, his head resting on Brock’s shoulder and his long hair tickling Brock’s cheek. 

Of course, no response came from Winter. 

Brock turned to face Winter now. His eyes travelled downwards, seeing him wrapped up in his kitten blanket, his metal fingers keeping the material closed around him and his flesh hand presumably closed around Stevie from within. Winter was still shaky and pale, but his eyes looked a little more vibrant, and it was the first time he had left the bed since the attack.

Brock dropped his own head to rest against Winter’s as he pulled the carton of cigarettes from his pocket and retrieved his sixth from inside. He disposed of the one he’d finished with before lighting up the sixth and keeping it firmly between his lips as he wrapped his arm around Winter’s shoulders to hug him close.

“Murphy is gonna be here soon.” Brock grunted as the metal arm spasmed and elbowed him in the ribs –  _ hard _ . Yep, soon, but not soon enough. “He’s gonna get your arm all fixed up, buddy - get it back in workin’ order.” 

Winter still didn’t respond. His eyes fixed on one of the neighbours venturing out of their house to get their mail. He wasn’t surprised to see the nervousness on her face as she watched them; Winter wasn’t supposed to exist to the public, but to the targets he  _ had  _ approached, there had always been fear on their faces. 

“They are afraid of me.” 

Brock was so used to Winter’s silence, he always jumped in surprise whenever he heard him speak unexpectedly. He turned to look at him. “Wints?” 

“Why? They are not my mission.” 

Brock frowned; was Winter showing insecurity right now? “Nah... Don’t think it’s you, buddy; think it’s the asshole from the other night.” 

Winter shook his head. “It’s me. Everyone fears me. Even Pierce.”

Brock’s hands clenched at the name. “Pierce is a fuckin’  _ bastard  _ and I hope he’s dead, Wints. The shit he let happen to you...”

Winter was silent for so long, Brock had thought he wasn’t going to get a response. But eventually, Winter whispered, “I followed my orders; it doesn’t matter what they did to me. It was orders.”

“It isn’t ‘just orders’ when  _ you didn’t want it,  _ Winter!” Brock hissed. “It was shit they should never have done to you!”

“I didn’t care.”

“You  _ did  _ care ‘cause every time I had to remind those fucks to keep their hands to themselves, you had to watch  _ me  _ just to get through it!” Brock shoved his hand into the blanket and past the hem of Winter’s pyjama shirt to put his palm onto Winter’s stomach. Sure enough, Winter flinched and jerked away. “You  _ still  _ fuckin’ flinch whenever someone touches your skin! That isn’t ‘ _ not caring’ _ , Wints!”

“Then I do not know what I was feeling,” Winter admitted. “I never understood any of it; I only knew the orders they would give me.”

“Even now...” Brock felt tears well in his eyes as he regarded Winter with a frown, “...you still... can’t understand you didn’t  _ want that _ ...”

“Assets are not allowed to want; they only obey.”

“You’re  _ not  _ an asset, Winter!” Brock argued. “Not anymore! There was a reason I risked my life gettin’ you away from that shit! You’re  _ not  _ just a fuckin’  _ weapon,  _ Wints! You’re  _ human _ !” 

Winter shook his head. “I am not. I do not know what I am, but I am not human. I am…” 

Brock felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest at the way Winter’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he tried to work out what exactly Hydra had trained him to be. He shook his head and forced his tone to soften as he murmured, “Wints… You’re more human than  _ I  _ am. I told you to leave the fuckin’ duck behind and you wouldn’t. You dug it out of a fucking  _ storm drain _ . I’ve read your files; you didn’t become the Winter Soldier willingly, Wints. That was  _ years  _ of torture and conditionin’. I know for a  _ fact  _ that the man you used to be… I could  _ never  _ be  _ half _ the fuckin’ man you once were, Wints.” 

Winter’s brows furrowed further. When he met Brock’s gaze, it was with confused eyes. “He called me…  _ Barnes _ … Is that my name?” 

Before Brock could even work out how he was meant to reply to that question, the neighbour who had been watching them so warily from her mailbox made herself known at the end of their pathway with a quiet ahem. 

Brock frowned at her. “What?” 

“I just…” She returned the frown and dropped her eyes to the ground. “…Is he doing okay…? Your boyfriend, I mean?” 

“Why does everyone keep thinkin’ he’s my boyfriend?” Brock muttered beneath his breath. He shook his head before he called out to the woman, trying to keep as calm as he could. “Yeah, he’s gonna be alright, I think; my friend’s gonna be here soon to give him a check-up.”

The woman shifted uneasily. Brock could tell that she was afraid of getting too close to them for her own safety. He briefly wondered if she’d seen the news reports the day of the attack on the Triskelion. “I just… He was poisoned, right…?” 

“He’s fine now.” Brock  _ really  _ didn’t want to get into this conversation, and to his utmost relief, the car that had stopped at the kerb was the perfect excuse for him to pretend that he’d forgotten she was there. He turned his attention to Winter. “Murphy’s here, Wints. He’s gonna get you fixed up all good again.” 

“You promised no chair…” Winter sounded exhausted,  _ dead _ , as if he’d just completely given up on life.

“No, no, there  _ is  _ no chair,” Brock swore. “Promise. No chair. He’s just gonna repair your arm, Wints – just maintenance today. No wipes. I promise.” 

Winter wasn’t convinced, Brock knew, but he wasn’t going to stress Winter out more than he already was by trying to make him believe something he clearly was struggling to trust. Winter’s still-dead eyes watched Murphy walking up the path, greeting the neighbour cheerfully and introducing himself. 

A pang of something indescribable tore through Winter; why wasn’t  _ he  _ allowed to interact with civilians like that? Winter buried his face into Brock’s shoulder and closed his eyes, leaning into the arms Brock wrapped around him. 

Murphy greeted them with a hug – well,  _ attempted  _ hugs. Brock shoved him away with an annoyed mutter, and he knew better than to make Winter feel as if he were being restrained. 

“Rumlow! Winter!” Murphy dropped the briefcase he was carrying onto the steps so he could clap his hands together in excitement. “We were sure you were both dead! When I told Rollins you called me the other –“ 

“- Rollins…?” Brock frowned; Rollins was alive…? 

“Yeah, Jack!” Murphy’s eyes were vibrant. “He’s been so worried about you, Rumlow!” 

“I thought he was dead – it’s what the fucker from the other night said…” 

“No; he’s alive!” Murphy’s excitement faltered now. “…But… Yeah, the rest of your team… I’m sorry, Commander…” 

“Don’t call me that!” Brock hissed. “I’m not with Hydra anymore! I’m not a Hydra operative  _ or  _ a SHIELD operative!” 

Murphy knelt down beside Winter so he could gently untangle him from the blanket. “I know, I know. I’m sorry; it’s habit! But you know, so much has gone down since Hydra took over SHIELD. It’s crazy. The rest of the world is terrified of SHIELD – what  _ was  _ SHIELD, anyway. My apartment was raided, but Captain Rogers vouched for me not being a threat to anyone – said he’d vouch that I could never be Hydra, and with SHIELD gone, I was harmless.” 

“Sloppy.” Brock shook his head. “He should know better – you can’t trust anyone where Hydra’s involved…” 

“Yes, well… Winter, please let me take the blanket away so I can check you over.” Murphy’s tone was patient, far more patient than Brock could ever hope to achieve with Winter. Brock wasn’t surprised when Winter obeyed and let Murphy take his blanket from him; Winter strangely had always liked him – probably for the fact that he was the only tech who treated him with respect. “Thank you, Winter. You’re such a good boy.” 

Winter looked down at his lap when Murphy’s eyes trailed down after taking the blanket away. He cocked his head to the side once he realised what Murphy was looking at. Without hesitation, he raised Stevie into the air and showed him off, like a challenge contestant showing off their hard-earned trophy. 

Maybe it was nothing more than testament to just how kind and gentle a personality Murphy had that Winter was so willing to let Murphy stroke the duck’s back for a few seconds when Brock couldn’t even  _ poke  _ it, but Brock didn’t care; he hated the thought of Winter liking someone more than him. 

“Oh, so cute!” Murphy had his phone out of his pocket in a second, and Brock was sure they were about to be unwilling participants in Murphy’s tales of his feline army. Thankfully, Murphy did nothing more than snap a photo of Stevie and put his phone away. “What is his name, Winter?” 

Winter didn’t reply, so Brock did so for him. “Stevie…” 

“Oh, that’s so sweet, Winter; I have a cat named Steve!” 

Brock face-palmed. “You did  _ not  _ name it after Cap…” 

“Don’t be jealous, Rumlow; Brock is named after you, too,” Murphy soothed calmly. He turned back to Winter. “I also have a cat named after you as well, Winter. And Rollins. And Pierce. I will show you photos later, but first we have to get you standing, big guy.” 

Winter made no protest as he was helped back into the house. He felt the heaviness in his chest fade away when he was taken to the bed; he’d been so certain they were putting him back into the chair, and to know that they weren’t…

Winter didn’t understand the water that leaked from his right eye. 

There were no restraints holding him in place like there always had been back with Hydra, Winter knew. His arms were free to move of their own accord, and if he had to, he could kick out and protect himself. In fact, the entire check-up was nothing like how it had been at Hydra; Murphy checked his vitals in much more primitive ways, but he still seemed happy with the results.

“Alright, Winter.” Murphy grabbed the hem of Winter’s pyjama shirt. “Let me just get this off so I can make sure your internals aren’t damaged, and then I can start on your arm.” 

When Murphy pulled Winter’s shirt over his head, the first thing he saw was the massive bruising all around Winter’s stomach. He frowned. 

“Have you noticed this bruising?” Murphy asked Brock. He chewed at his lip when he received a shake of the head in response. “When was the last time you’ve seen his stomach?” 

“Before the fucker poisoned him,” Brock growled. “It was fine then.” 

Murphy prodded carefully at Winter’s stomach. “Is any of this hurting you or causing you discomfort, Winter?” 

Winter shook his head. Brock had to remind Murphy that Winter could be feeling agony and he still wouldn’t say yes because of the conditioning. 

“Just gonna run some tests…” Murphy opened up his briefcase and pulled equipment out. He changed the subject as he worked, using his voice to keep Winter calm. “Captain Rogers went on a rampage not long ago, Rumlow.” 

Brock cocked an eyebrow. “Really…?” 

“Yes. It was something to do with his old war buddy, I think.” Murphy fiddled with the instrument in his hand, but his focus never faltered. “I don’t know what it was about. You know that guy, right? The guy I’m talking about, Rumlow?” 

“How  _ can  _ I know him? He’s long dead.” Brock didn’t know why he was protecting Winter from  _ Murphy  _ of all people because the most harmful thing Brock had known him to do was force people to read the three-hundred-seventy-two page manual on his cats whenever he required someone to care for them in his absence.

Brock knew exactly how long that manual was; he’d taken care of the damn things on more than one occasion… 

“That’s what I thought,” Murphy agreed. “I don’t know why he’s raising such a fuss about it now. Maybe he feels guilty?” 

That wasn’t what it was, but Brock was certainly feeling guilty now that Murphy had mentioned it; the Captain spends seventy years blaming himself for his best friend’s death, and here Brock is, keeping said best friend right under his nose. 

It was probably so unfair on Winter as well, but Brock had never liked sharing – and besides, Brock had gone through hell for the guy and wasn’t willing to give Winter up that easily. 

“I mean…” Murphy prodded at Winter’s stomach again, “…that was a nasty way to go. I feel sorry for the poor guy. I really hope he didn’t feel it when he hit the ground.” 

Winter’s eyebrows were furrowing. Brock cussed at the glassy look in his eyes. “Hey. Murphy. Shut up and do your job. I’d rather listen to you talk about your fuckin’ cats than about some guy who’s been dead seventy years.” 

“Oh, well, in that case, you should know that Alexander brought me a very nice gift last week! He brought me back a  _ sponge _ from his last hunt!” Murphy was back in excited rambling mode, about his cats nonetheless. Brock face-palmed,  _ hard _ ; fuckin’ good goin’, Rumlow, now the fucker will  _ never  _ shut up… 

Brock tuned Murphy out easily, and he only started listening again when Murphy put away the tools he’d been using on Winter’s stomach. “What’s the verdict? He gonna be okay or what…?” 

“He will be fine,” Murphy promised. “The bruising isn’t anything to worry about, and his internal organs all seem to be functioning normally. Of course, if I could bring him back to base, I could give him a more thorough check… But I still believe he’s going to be fine.” 

Brock nodded at Winter’s arm. “And the arm? It’s been actin’ weird since; keeps spasming and doin’ weird shit. Almost broke my nose last night while we were sleepin’.” 

“I didn’t know Winter was your boyfriend!” How the  _ fuck  _ was it possible for a grown fuckin’ man to look like a teenage girl findin’ out her best friend was datin’ the hottest guy in school. Brock wanted to slam his face into the wall and put himself out of his misery. “How long?!” 

“He’s  _ not  _ my fuckin’  _ boyfriend _ !” Brock roared. “I swear to god, if one more fucker says anythin’ ‘bout it, I’m gonna -!” 

“- But he is, isn’t he?” Murphy raised his eyebrow. “You were always taking him home to –“ 

“- To get him  _ away  _ from all you sick fucks!” Brock snapped. “In between missions! When he was out for a while! If I left him in the holdin’ cell, and I wasn’t there with him…! I honestly felt fuckin’ better when they’d throw him back in the freezer!” 

“Hey, I never –“ 

“- Nah, I know  _ you  _ never did, Murphy,” Brock promised. “Fuckin’… It was everyone else. And the worst part? He doesn’t  _ care,  _ Murphy. He thinks it’s  _ normal _ what they did to him. That it’s  _ okay _ . And it’s  _ not _ .” 

Murphy looked heartbroken at the news. He looked back to Winter, and as gently as he could, he murmured, “It’s  _ not  _ okay, Winter. That’s… That’s horrible, and I’m just… I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Winter… You didn’t deserve that – no matter  _ what  _ you think you do and do not deserve…” 

“I do not deserve anything, Agent Murphy,” Winter responded, flat and emotionless. “I deserve whatever my handler chooses for me. I still do not understand why Commander Rumlow believes I deserve all this… this…” 

“Niceness?” Brock spat the word like it offended him. He wanted to hit something when Winter nodded. “Because you  _ do  _ deserve it, Wints! You didn’t deserve  _ any  _ of what Hydra did to you!” 

Winter showed no emotion at the response. He looked to his metal arm when he felt Murphy take it to examine the damage. 

Murphy, who knew the conversation was getting nowhere, murmured, “Is this causing you pain, Winter?” 

Winter shook his head. Brock finally thought to ask, “So he  _ can  _ feel pain with it?” 

“Yes – to a degree.” Murphy twisted the arm gently to check its movement. “Pressure sensation, mostly. Especially in his trigger finger so he knows how hard to pull it back. But the entire arm is programmed to feel pain if damaged enough. Think of it as a deterrent for him messing up a mission.” 

“Hydra are fucked,” Brock growled. 

Murphy didn’t respond. He worked diligently on the arm until he was satisfied with it. With that, he packed up his things and pulled the blankets over Winter to tuck him in tight. 

“Winter, stay here and rest; you’re still going to need it to recover,” Murphy instructed. “Rumlow, can I talk to you outside?” 

Brock nodded. He followed Murphy out of the house and to the car. He waited until Murphy had tossed the briefcase into it before he growled, “What do you want, Murphy…?” 

Murphy was giving Brock a serious look now. His eyes flickered as he searched Brock’s own. “Say what you want, but I  _ know  _ you didn’t bring Winter all the way out here just to give him a good life. I’ve seen you murder innocents in the name of Hydra. You aren’t out here being a good Samaritan, Rumlow.” 

“Who gives a fuck  _ why  _ I’m out here?!” Brock snapped. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Murphy promised. “In fact, I’m really happy. For Winter  _ and  _ you.” 

Brock was taken aback now. “Me…?” 

“Yes. I always felt so sorry for poor Winter. I mean, having to perform ‘justified’ torture on a guy who’d just spent the last three hours being raped by people who are supposed to be his  _ teammates _ ? No, I  _ hated  _ it, Rumlow. Seeing him so distracted, so…  _ unfocused _ … I knew what was going through his mind at those times. And the  _ wipes,  _ Rumlow… His screams  _ still  _ wake me up at night.” 

Brock gave a bitter snort. “You and me both…” 

Murphy shook his head. “And it wasn’t just Winter! Every time you’d bring him in, I could  _ see  _ the depression on your face, Rumlow. It hurt you so much knowing what you were taking him into – how you felt like you were betraying him when he always had so much trust in you…” 

Brock winced. “…” 

“Rumlow, you took  _ care  _ of him when no one else cared to! You were always more than just his handler… Winter thought of you as more, too. Your team would leave him bleeding and ripped apart, but every mission you had where it was just you and Winter… You know Winter came back calm and relaxed  _ every time,  _ right?” 

Brock’s eyes widened as he realised what Murphy was getting at. He shook his head. “No… No, I just raped him, as well, Murphy…” 

“I don’t think Winter ever saw it as rape,” Murphy whispered. “Not like with everyone else. I think… as much as Winter truly cannot consent to any sexual activities… He genuinely would have wanted it with you if he  _ could _ , Rumlow. Most of the damage he would come back with from everyone else was damage because they were too rough with him, and I think he struggled at times. But  _ never  _ with you, Rumlow. There was  _ never  _ any damage with you.” 

“How can you treat it like I  _ haven’t  _ been takin’ advantage of him?!” Brock snapped. “Why?! The both of you?! It was  _ rape _ , Murphy! Don’t glorify this like I’m some sort of… Some sort of  _ hero  _ for being the first person to fuck him and not make it as fuckin’ rapey as possible!” 

“You never realised you were taking advantage of him, Rumlow. You always thought you were helping him with the conditioning –  _ rewarding  _ him. You learnt, Rumlow. You realised. Have you touched him since?” 

“Once, since we’ve been here… And then I realised that I… I’m no better than anyone else who did it to him… I took advantage of his trust because I was in a position of authority, and I…” Brock wiped at his eyes with his jacket sleeve. “Murphy, I wanted to fuckin’  _ shoot myself in the head for it! _ ” 

“You haven’t done it since,” Murphy whispered. He shook his head. “The past can’t be forgiven, Rumlow… You can’t make up for it, and you can’t change it. But there’s always the future. People can change, get better… And honestly, Rumlow…?” 

Brock winced. He didn’t deserve this gentleness. “…” 

Murphy offered a smile. “I think you and Winter are perfect for each other. You always have brought out the best in each other. There’s always time to learn – to  _ change _ . The best advice I can give you, Rumlow… As someone who’s known you personally for a long time… Don’t push him away. Lean on him. Let him lean on you and learn how to be a person again. You can help each other grow. He loves you so much, Rumlow.” 

“He loves me…?” 

“Who else would stick by you as much as he has, Rumlow?” Murphy laughed playfully. “He  _ has  _ to love you for wanting to be around you all the time.” 

Brock punched Murphy in the arm. “Fucker! My personality is winnin’ and I have great looks to go along with it!” 

“Well, Winter must certainly agree.” Murphy’s smile was sincere. “Seriously, Rumlow. He thinks the  _ world  _ of you. Try and teach him that he’s worth more than just being someone’s plaything. He deserves so much more.” 

“I’m scared I’ll just take advantage of him again…” 

“There’s a difference between knowingly taking advantage of someone, and just trying to find the right things to do by them, Rumlow. Seriously. He’s head over heels for you. All he ever did was stare at you when he wasn’t busy murdering people.” 

Brock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Can I tell you somethin’, Murph…?” 

“You can tell me anything, Rumlow,” Murphy promised. 

Brock sighed. “…I’m just as fucked up and damaged as Winter is, and I know I’ll just fuck him up even more ‘cause I just keep fuckin’  _ me  _ up, Murphy…” 

“Well… There’s no right or wrong in how  _ anyone  _ deals with trauma.” Murphy was careful as he considered his response. “…But I think it  _ definitely  _ helps to have someone who understands, Rumlow. Who knows; it might do you  _ both  _ some good.” 

“Murphy, he doesn’t even  _ care  _ that he’s been –“ 

“- As I said, there’s no right or wrong. If that’s how he needs to be able to deal with what’s been done to him, then let him do so, Rumlow. He probably can’t even comprehend it just yet. Give him time.” Murphy opened his car door to retrieve a laptop bag from beneath the passenger seat. He sat down and turned the laptop on. “Give me a minute – going to organise some medications for you both…”

Brock was too tired to even care what Murphy was doing. He knew what it was about, really; Murphy had always forged prescriptions for certain Hydra members, and it had been through him that Brock had stayed on his antidepressants for as long as he had before quitting cold turkey a decade ago during a particularly bad bout of depression. 

“Thanks, Murph…” Brock sighed. 

“Any time,” Murphy murmured. “There’s a prescription for Winter, too. He’s going to need these to get him through the recovery. If he gets really bad on them, let me know and I’ll give you something else for him.” 

“I really don’t deserve this. I’m a fuckin’ shitty person…” 

Murphy shook his head. “Not to Winter, you aren’t, Rumlow. You’re his world.” 

Somehow, as much as Brock knew they shouldn’t, those words brought him comfort.

  
  


 


	9. Chapter 9

“You really love your soup, sir.”

Brock blinked himself out of his stupor at the statement. He frowned at the cashier, a young girl who surely was still in school. His eyes wandered down to the dozen soups on the conveyer belt, waiting to be scanned and bagged. He shrugged. “They’re for my partner. Solid foods mess his stomach up real bad. ...He likes soup.”

“I can tell; you buy all this soup and you still come back every few days for more.” She smiled.

“He’s a big guy.” Brock offered no more to the conversation for several moments until the girl had finished bagging the soup and was scanning a bottle of shampoo. Quietly, almost absentmindedly to a point, he murmured, “He’s eatin’ oatmeal now.”

“You must love him, sir.”

Brock hummed, but he didn’t speak any further until he’d paid for his purchases and thanked her as he left the convenience store.

It felt weird to be running errands on his own. Winter usually came with him, if only to sit in the car and act like a tethered guard dog with a distrust of the postman. But Winter was at home, still recovering from the cyanide poisoning.

It was probably a good thing Winter wasn’t here, Brock soon realised. He’d put the bags in the passenger footwell of the truck just before his attention was grabbed by a large sedan swerving into the near-empty parking lot, and three men emptying out of it to chase after a woman walking along the footpath behind them.

Brock closed his eyes and tried to ignore it. The number plates on the sedan told Brock that the men weren’t from this quiet, sleepy town, and instead were passing through from their own state, which explained why it felt so out of place to encounter this sort of trouble again – but really, Brock was tired. So tired. He pretended not to see the woman running, looking over her shoulder at Brock as if to beg for his help.

Brock was shaking when he got back into his truck and turned the engine on. He took a deep breath and told himself that he didn’t need this; he’d done enough with HYDRA, and it was  _ okay  _ that he wanted to keep to himself and not go looking for trouble.

But the part of Brock who hated society, the utter fuckery and confusion and disarray it presented daily – the part of Brock that had made him join HYDRA  _ because  _ he couldn’t stand living in a world that insisted on suffering and misery – couldn’t ignore what was happening.

“Fuck!” Brock punched the steering wheel angrily before he ripped the keys from the ignition and kicked the door open. He patted his hip to make sure his holster was there as he followed the men into the small, dark alley across the road they had dragged their victim into.

Brock had been expecting what he’d found. Those men leering and mocking as they pawed at the woman and tugged her clothing roughly. Brock had seen this too many times. On missions, and with Winter – hell, he’d been with foster families who hadn’t seen him any better than HYDRA had seen Winter.

Brock’s fingers curled around his holster as he assessed the situation from the shadows. He wanted to kill. To aim his gun and take out all three men slowly and painfully. But Brock didn’t want any trouble. He wanted to be left alone, to go about his own life and do his own thing. If he killed these men, he would have to run again – and neither he nor Winter were in any condition to keep running.

But Brock couldn’t let this go unpunished. Hell, as Winter’s handler, he’d punished him for less when required.

Brock let go of his holster and stepped out of the shadows. “You fuckers ever heard of usin’ your own hand when no one wants to fuck you?”

One of the men turned to sneer at Brock as his companions tore the blouse from the woman’s body. “You’d be pretty good at that, wouldn’t ya, man?”

Brock shrugged. “Well… Gettin’ myself off at night by choice is  _ hell  _ of a lot better than bein’ a hideous dickbag who can’t get a woman unless he forces her…”

“You want trouble? You found it.”

Brock stayed in place while one of the men advanced on him. He waited until he had been struck at before he dodged and connected his own fist with the man’s cheekbone, earning a sickening crack as he fell to the ground, out cold. Brock shrugged again as his eyes fixed on the two remaining men. “Who’s next?”

The men were determined to keep the woman. When Brock finished with the second guy who’d thought he honestly stood a chance against one of HYDRA’s most highly trained operatives, his eyes fixed on the final man who still hadn’t let the woman go.

Brock cocked his head to the side as he regarded the two men on the ground calmly. “You know, it’s lucky it’s just me you’re dealin’ with. I don’t think you’d like Winter very much; he doesn’t play gently. Fuck, I’m almost tempted to bring him here and let him have at you, honestly. Don’t think he likes people like you very much. I’m sure it’d excite him to let loose some energy here.”

“You come near me and I’ll fucking kill her!” As if to prove his point, the assaulter pulled a knife from his pocket and held it to the woman’s throat.

Brock rolled his eyes. “Civilians. Always think they’re somethin’ special.”

Just like that, Brock had drawn his own blade and thrown it at the man’s hand. It met its target, the blade embedding deeply and sending him jerking backwards with a yelp. Brock took the opportunity to lunge forward and take him into a chokehold. The woman was running, crying and whimpering. It only boiled Brock’s anger dangerously.

“When will you fuckers learn that there’s no place in society for your kind?” Brock snarled. He dragged the struggling man over to the brick wall and bashed his face into it, again and again until those pitiful pleas for mercy finally stopped. Brock spat when he dropped the trembling man to the ground. “You want me to stop? You would never have stopped for that woman, no matter how much she cried and begged.”

Brock’s hand was automatically pulling his gun from its holster. He clicked the safety off and stared stoically down as he aimed the muzzle at the crying man’s head, a sneer finally forming on his face at the way the man curled into a pathetic ball.

Brock didn’t pull the trigger. He knew the trouble it would bring if he did. Part of him considered dragging them all out to the truck and taking them somewhere far away so he could deal with them adequately – but Brock had left that life behind. He wanted peace. SHIELD and HYDRA were behind him, and he didn’t have to fight anymore.

Brock spat again as he stalked his way out of the alley, a sour expression on his face as he fought the urge to turn around and empty three rounds from the gun.

He didn’t, no matter how much he wanted to. Not for their sakes. Maybe not even his own. But Winter would have no one if Brock got into more trouble than he already was.

The woman was waiting for him at the alleyway entrance. He ignored her and kept his gaze straight ahead. She ran to him, almost hysterical as she thanked him and pleaded with him to help her get home.

“Don’t touch me,” Brock growled as he yanked his arm from her grip where she’d wrapped petite fingers around his forearm. He ignored the crestfallen, shocked, and  _ hurt  _ expression on her face and kept walking. “Don’t  _ fuckin’  _ touch me! I can’t stand people grabbin’ at me!”

Brock left her behind as he stomped back to the truck. He didn’t care about the way she stood and watched him leave like he’d just betrayed her entire family.

Brock wasn’t a good person. He did the wrong things for the right reasons, but his morality was questionable. He wasn’t a good person. Brock just hated society and the way it functioned.

***

When Brock got home, he found Winter curled up beneath the far window of the living room, looking more alert than Brock had seen him for a while. Brock put the shopping down on the coffee table and held his position, knowing to give him space. 

“Wints? You okay, buddy?” Brock was worried; was Winter alert because something had happened? 

Winter was shaking. He was in mission mode – Brock knew that from the rigidity of his posture and empty expression – but Brock could still see the fear and confusion in his eyes. “You were gone…” 

Brock wasn’t surprised; Winter always had followed him around like a puppy with separation anxiety, even back with HYDRA. “Hey, I’m right here. I just went out for some things.” 

Winter’s eyes narrowed in on a spec of blood on Brock’s hand that Brock hadn’t even noticed. “You are bleeding.” 

“Not my blood,” Brock promised without hesitation. “Why are you hidin’ down there? Where’s your duck?” 

“Safe…” Winter’s eyes darted around the room, as if he were searching for something only he knew about. “There was a strange man outside.”

“Strange man?” 

“He watched the house. I have not seen him before.” Winter jerked his head backwards at the window he was curled beneath. “He went past the houses on the right. He has not come back.” 

“What did he look like? Was it the fucker from the other night?” 

Winter shook his head. “No. Not him. Different man, Commander.” 

Brock’s first instinct was that things weren’t over from the other night. In a way, he wasn’t exactly wrong. “Describe him.” 

“Short black hair, dark skin, beard, and he was communicating over telecoms with an unknown person.” Winter relayed it all so emotionlessly, and it only raised more questions for Brock; who the  _ fuck  _ had been stalking around their house? 

“You did good,” Brock praised. “Really good, Wints.” 

A twitch appeared in Winter’s expression. He looked down at his lap as he felt the familiar stirrings of arousal – but he was in mission mode, and a reward could be given after. He looked back to Brock. “Requesting permission to seek the man out.” 

“Denied.” Brock shook his head. “Stay in here, Wints. I don’t want you goin’ out there gettin’ hurt.” 

What Brock really meant to say was,  _ I don’t want you goin’ out there and causin’ more reason for people to fear you.  _

“Mission parameters.” 

“Stay inside and just observe them,” Brock instructed. “Give them a profile first. Do not engage unless they engage first.” 

“Understood.” 

“And, Winter…?” 

“Yes?” 

“…” Brock chewed at his lip before he moved to kneel before Winter and engulf him into a tight hug. He drew him into a deep kiss that he didn’t let break for almost a minute before he pulled away and caressed Winter’s cheek with his thumb. He stared into Winter’s eyes before he whispered, “…I… want you to be safe. Okay?” 

Winter nodded. “Understood.” 

Brock kissed Winter again for good measure. “Good… I’m gonna make you some soup, Wints.” 

Winter nodded. He licked his lips, hesitating, but eventually whispering, “Oatmeal, Commander…? With… With honey?” 

“You want that instead?” Brock smiled when Winter gave a nervous nod. “Okay. Oatmeal it is, then.” 

Brock wasn’t going to deny Winter his request – not when he was finally trying to think for himself and express desires. He wanted to encourage that growth, to get Winter back into a semi-functional human. 

Reinforcing HYDRA’s conditioning in him was the worst thing Brock could ever do to Winter. 

Brock returned quickly with oatmeal covered in honey. As usual, it was only the one bowl in his hands; Winter compensated for his shrunken stomach by having regular meals spread throughout the day, and with how little he could eat at a time, Brock never saw the point in cooking much when he hadn’t been eating either. 

“Here, Wints.” Brock sat down next to Winter and rested with his back against the wall. “Have a bite.” 

Winter accepted the spoonful happily before he dropped his head onto Brock’s shoulder and curled against him. He purred as Brock ate a little himself, waiting patiently for Brock to deem his stomach ready for the next spoonful. 

Brock looked down when he felt fingertips dancing against the back of his hand. He balanced the bowl on his knees and turned his hand palm up so Winter could trace patterns against it. Brock  _ smiled  _ at the incredible amount of gentleness Winter touched him with. 

“Winter...” Brock swallowed past the thick lump in his throat. His lips were going dry, so he poked his tongue out and wet them. His heart felt like it was beating too fast as he held Winter’s gaze. “...”

Brock put the spoon into the bowl so he could cup Winter’s cheek. His fingers brushed gently against stubble as he leant in slowly, closing his eyes and opening his mouth just enough to suck Winter’s bottom lip. 

Winter stayed still beneath Brock, but he was loose and relaxed. He didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t protest, either. Brock hoped he wasn’t forcing this on Winter. 

When Brock pulled away, he took a few moments to catch his breath before he leant in again, sucking gently at Winter’s lips, but never doing more. Soft smacks filled the air, and for the first time in Brock’s life, he felt  _ happy _ . 

Brock pulled away again to rest his forehead against Winter’s and stare into his eyes. Winter stared back, his lips red and swollen and tiny pants escaping him. Brock’s breath stuttered as his heart skipped a beat.

“Winter, I...” Brock’s mouth went dry again. “I...” 

When Winter’s hand hesitantly rested against Brock’s hip, Brock gave a stuttering gasp. He pressed into the touch, encouraging him, moving to nibble and suck at Winter’s neck in response. Winter’s hand gripped a tad tighter to Brock’s hip as he tilted his head back and let his mouth hang open.

“Commander… The mission…?” There was a slight pant to Winter’s words, and Brock would never had noticed if he wasn’t so in-tune with him.

Brock shook his head. He pulled his lips away just enough to whisper against Winter’s skin. “Take a break; we’re doin’ other stuff right now…”

Winter nodded. He wasn’t making any audible noise, but he didn’t have to; Brock could feel him responding beneath his hands as he ran his palms all over his body.

Brock shifted uncomfortably to try and relieve the pressure in his groin that his tight jeans created. He pulled one hand from Winter’s bicep so he could pull the zipper down and loosen his belt to create some room to breathe. He did nothing more than that, though; one glance down to Winter’s lap showed him that Winter was still flaccid.

Brock had every mind to pull away and stop what was happening since Winter didn’t seem to share much interest in what was happening. He sat up straight, trying to control his heavy breathing and will his erection away. “Sorry… I was gettin’ carried away…”

Winter didn’t seem to mind much if his nuzzling into Brock meant anything. Brock closed his eyes and let out a pleased sigh. Winter’s hair was soft, and his stubble ticklish as they both rubbed against Brock’s cheek with his nuzzling. He was like a kitten, all eager to rub their faces together, purring and  _ vibrating  _ with joy as he turned his head to the side so he could nuzzle his other cheek against Brock’s now.

It came as a surprise to feel a tentative lick against his neck. Brock couldn’t help but moan out loud; it had been so long since he’d taken someone to his bed, and Winter’s tongue was so warm and wet…

“Oh, fuck…” Brock sucked in a shaky gasp and squeezed his eyes shut. He reached up to take Winter’s head and guide his mouth to his ear. “Here… Just – Just suck around here for a bit… You can bite, too.”

Winter did as he was told, sucking Brock’s earlobe in between his lips and licking the shell. His hot breath billowing into Brock’s ear had Brock panting harshly as he struggled to keep his hips from rocking into nothing. Winter nibbled, gentle, ever so gentle like a puppy mouthing at its beloved toy.

Brock cracked one eyelid open and glanced at Winter’s groin again. His heart sunk and he questioned what the fuck he was doing when he was once again reminded that he was being selfish and using Winter for his own sick reasons because still, Winter didn’t look even  _ slightly  _ hard.

Brock pushed Winter away and cleared his throat. He avoided eye contact and looked anywhere but at Winter as he got hastily to his feet and mumbled to him to keep watch and not to leave his post until Brock returned.

Brock made a beeline straight for their room. He kicked the door shut behind him and climbed straight onto their bed so he could push his pants and boxers down and finally free his hardened self to the cold air. He bit down on his lip and tried to stifle his moans as he wrapped one calloused palm around himself and stroked,  _ hard  _ and  _ fast _ , knowing he was already teetering on the edge and it really wouldn’t take much to get him off.

Brock was already so worked up, it took little more than a minute of thinking about their bodies pressed together and the force of Brock’s thrusts rocking the bed to get him off. When he was spilling over his hand, he let out a strangled groan and squeezed. He kept his eyes closed as he caught his breath, feeling his head clearing as he came down from his orgasm.

“Fuck… Fuck…” The orgasm had been intense. They usually were where Winter was evolved.

But Winter… hadn’t even been hard, and Brock didn’t know what to do with that information. Winter had definitely been responding to the touches; the way his muscles had fluttered beneath Brock’s hands could only have been from pleasure.

But Winter hadn’t been hard, and Brock didn’t understand why, if Winter  _ had  _ been feeling pleasure, he…

Unless he hadn’t even wanted it…

Brock growled and stood up from the bed. He moved into the bathroom so he could wash his hands and clean up. He disappeared out the back door to smoke a few cigarettes with only the HYDRA van for company to try and clear the rest of his mind, and when he went back inside, it was to find Winter, still in his position but now with a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“You okay?” Brock picked up the bowl of oatmeal they had hardly eaten. It was still a tad warm, and he wondered if Winter would still eat it if he were fed it.

“I feel weird…” Winter mumbled.

“Weird?”

Winter nodded. “Weird…”

Brock wondered if Winter  _ was  _ aroused, after all, but a quick glance to his lap showed that most likely wasn’t the case. “What kind of weird?”

Winter whimpered and scooted next to Brock again. He rested his head on Brock’s shoulder and snuggled in close, grabbing Brock arm and dragging it over him. He whimpered again as he tried to press even closer, but eventually, once he had pushed himself in so close, Brock felt like he was being crushed against the wall, he calmed down.

Brock brushed hair out of Winter’s face as he regarded his now-peaceful expression. Had Winter just wanted to be close to him? He’d certainly looked stressed out when Brock had returned, but now, he was as docile as a kitten.

Brock kissed the top of Winter’s head before he dropped his cheek to rest against it. He let out a content sigh. Well, no matter what Winter had been feeling, this was perfect, and Brock could stay like this forever.    

***

Winter loved having baths. They relaxed him like nothing else, to sit in the warm water with his eyes closed and breathing steady as Brock knelt by the side of the tub and scrubbed his body clean.

Having his hair washed was Winter’s favourite part. He always purred whenever Brock’s fingertips rubbed circles into his scalp, and if he could, he would have curled into Brock and fallen asleep to it.

“You’re so good for me,” Brock murmured in an off-hand manner as Winter tilted his head back and stayed docile so Brock could tip a jug of warm water through his hair and wash the shampoo out. His attention was grabbed by the subtle twitching of Winter’s shaft.

Brock couldn’t help but wonder… Was Winter conditioned to not feel arousal unless HYDRA specifically allowed him to…?

“What we were doin’ earlier…” Brock was careful how he phrased this question. “…It felt good for you. Didn’t it?” 

Winter didn’t hesitate to nod. “It always feels good with you. Only with you.” 

“Only with me?” 

Winter nodded. “It feels bad with everyone else. But never bad with you.” 

“So you enjoy it.” 

“…” Stupid statement, Rumlow; Winter doesn’t even know what it  _ is  _ to enjoy something. 

“I mean…” Brock chewed at his lip for a few moments, “…if I made you feel that way more often… You wouldn’t mind it. You wouldn’t… It wouldn’t be somethin’… I was forcin’ on you?” 

“I do not think so,” Winter responded. “I want what my handlers what. You never force anything onto me.” 

Brock sighed; so he was still conditioned to a point… 

Well, Brock could work with that. “If I ever did anythin’ to you that you don’t like or want, you are to tell me to stop, Wints. That’s an order. Even if you think  _ I  _ want it… But  _ you  _ don’t… You are ordered to say  _ stop _ , Wints. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” 

Brock’s shoulders relaxed as he gave a sigh of relief. “Good…” 

With that out of the way, he put the jug down onto the bathmat beside him and stretched his arm out to wrap his fingers around Winter’s softening length. 

Winter looked at Brock in confusion, and it was almost enough for Brock to pull his hand away and resign himself to a life of no sex with Winter. “I don’t understand…” 

“What don’t you understand…?” Brock’s throat felt tight. Did he really want to hear about how much he was hurting Winter…?

“I have not done anything to deserve a reward.” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you trying to reward me?” 

Oh. So  _ that  _ was the problem. 

Brock clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Well, unlike HYDRA, I want to give you this not as a reward, but because I  _ wanna _ , Wints. I want to make you feel good – you don’t gotta do somethin’ that deserves a reward to feel good, Wints…” 

Winter didn’t look any less confused, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to question his handlers, so he stayed quiet. He wasn’t getting hard beneath Brock’s touch, as much as he wanted to; he had been taught better than to do so, and he knew the punishments involved if he grew hard out of his own desire. 

But Brock was quickly learning, and he didn’t still his hand for even a second. “Forget HYDRA, Wints. They gave you their orders, but now I’m givin’ you mine; if you feel good… If you  _ want  _ this… Get hard for me, Wints. Get hard for me if this makes you feel good.” 

With only a moment’s hesitation, Winter grew hard under Brock’s hand. His eyes closed and his lips parted into a small circle. 

Maybe Winter  _ had  _ been aroused earlier, Brock realised. Maybe Brock wasn’t as big an asshole as he’d thought he was – Winter truly couldn’t give consent in his condition, but knowing that, at the very least, Brock hadn’t  _ really  _ been holding him down and forcing him… 

Brock felt such immense relief, he didn’t know how to explain it. 

Brock couldn’t get Winter off in time before Winter had gone rigid and stared at the window opposite them. The blinds were drawn, so nobody could see in or out of the bathroom, but Brock knew Winter had heard something unusual to be alert like this. 

“What is it…?” Brock whispered. He reached down to his hip to pat his holster and ensure that they were still protected if needed. 

“One…” Winter’s eyes were tracking something. Brock had always wondered if there was secret x-ray vision in Winter’s eyes that Brock didn’t know about. His eyes stayed focused in place against the bathroom wall now, as if there was a TV there he was watching. “They have stopped.” 

“Let’s get out of the tub and dressed.” Brock helped Winter out of the tub and grabbed the towel to dry him off. He took Winter’s hand when he was done to lead him back to the bedroom. “C’mon; I’d rather no one be naked for this shit…” 

 As usual, Brock left the lights in the house off. The bathroom was the exception because Brock needed to see clearly, but now that they were in the bedroom, they moved by muscle memory. 

“Mission parameters,” Winter requested when Brock pulled a pyjama top over his head. 

“Stay,” was the simple instruction Winter was given. Winter didn’t need any further clarification; he understood it in its entirety and moved to follow Brock into the bed immediately. 

Winter climbed onto the mattress and snuggled in close to Brock. Brock sat upright to open the bedside drawers and pull out a bottle of pills. He pulled only one out and passed it to Winter, a single tablet that contained far more than the usual dosages handed out to patients, Brock was sure. 

“Take your medication, Wints; I have this watch.” Once Winter had swallowed the pill easily, Brock laid down onto his back and pulled Winter in to rest on top of his chest. He brushed his fingers through Winter’s hair as the antidepressant he’d given him knocked him out quickly. 

Once Winter was fast asleep, Brock pulled the security system smart phone off the bedside drawer and onto the bed with him. He checked the cameras, cycling through them to ensure it really only was the one person they had to be worried about.

When a familiar head of light-coloured hair passed quickly through one of the frames, Brock’s heart sunk. Well, they were certainly fucked now, no matter  _ what  _ they did. 

The only question was, why hadn’t he busted into here and dragged Winter out with him already? That wasn’t fitting of his character. There had to be something more to this… 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the really late update; I've had so much happening in my personal life and I am now in the middle of moving. So I cannot promise when the next update will be. I hope this chapter is worth the wait, at least.

If Brock had been struggling to stay awake for the night, he certainly wasn’t when Winter’s body jerked twice on his chest before his metal arm swung out and almost broke Brock’s jaw in its wake.

“Ah, _fuck_!” Brock disentangled himself from Winter and rolled away in case he jerked again. He hissed loudly and tried to breathe through his bloody nose while holding his throbbing jaw, wondering how the fuck he’d escaped with it still attached to his face; he’d seen Winter take jaws clean off with lesser strikes. The blood still filling his nostrils matched the saliva-tinged blood he was choking on and spitting onto the blankets.

It hadn’t been Winter’s fault, Brock knew. Brock should have known not to stay there when Winter started jerking, because he’d known for years that nightmares plagued him with little reprieve, and Winter often reacted violently to them.

But Brock was a fuck-up, and _of course_ he fucks even _that_ up.

The wet beneath Brock’s legs now told him that the nightmares were probably worse than usual. Winter still asleep, shaking and whimpering as tears ran down his cheeks, and it only made Brock surer of this suspicion.

Sometimes, Brock was sure he wanted to know what Winter dreamed about at night, and how bad it had to be to bring a weapon as deadly as Winter crumbling to his very core.

“Wints…!” Brock didn’t want to move. His neck had already been aching during the night, and now that he’d almost had his head taken off, it was aching worse than ever. He tried to blink back the sudden migraine taking over his head. “Wints, wake up…!”

The medication was supposed to help with the nightmares. Murphy had said so when he’d forged the prescription for Winter. It was supposed to sedate him, to help him sleep restfully through the night instead of only being able to sleep a couple hours because of vivid nightmares.

Brock would have to call Murphy in the morning and ask him about this. But for now, he needed to calm Winter down.

“Wints!” Fuck, it hurt to move his jaw. Brock must have looked a mess, blood staining his teeth and lower face. He was fucking lucky to have not been killed, but that was what he got for being too cosy with the world’s longest prisoner of war. “Wake up! You’re havin’ a nightmare!”

Winter snapped awake quickly. He looked so fearful, like a man who had been trapped in a plane that somehow managed to escape certain doom.

Maybe Brock _didn’t_ want to know what kind of nightmares Winter endured every night…

“Wints.” Brock squeezed his eyes shut as the migraine made his head feel like it would explode. “Get me painkillers.”

Winter obeyed without hesitation. He was gone for all of ten seconds before he returned with three pills and a glass of water in hand. Brock wondered if he’d secretly been training for this moment his whole life to have moved that quickly.

“Good.” Brock swallowed the pills down and groaned, wanting to spit out the metallic taste that was the blood he’d washed down his throat with them. “Just… Just give me ten minutes, Wints…”

Winter nodded. He stood by Brock’s side, still as a statue as he waited for Brock to help him. Five minutes had barely elapsed before his sensitive hearing picked up on movement outside. He growled loudly – and the out-of-character reaction had Brock trying to sit up and prepare himself for anything; with a growl like that, Brock was sure Winter would attack without provocation.

“Wints…?” Brock forced himself upright despite the pain and migraine. He reached out to ghost his fingertips against Winter’s flesh arm. Maybe he’d smacked his head against something harder than he’d realised in the van the day he’d almost crashed it, because ever since, his judgement and decision making had been sloppy as hell. That, or maybe for whatever reason he didn’t understand, he still trusted Captain Rogers to be somewhat of a friend. “Wints, ignore them…”

Winter growled again, loud and deadly as he climbed onto the bed to curl his body around Brock’s. As fucked up as it was, Brock couldn’t help but feel pleased at knowing Winter would rip through an entire army if it meant protecting him while he was so vulnerable.

“Wints.” Brock whimpered softly as he tried to pretend his head didn’t feel like it was about to explode from the pressure. He reached out to take Winter’s flesh hand, relieved that Winter was keeping Stevie in a “safe” place – wherever that was – because it meant that Brock didn’t have to fight a fucking _duck_ for Winter’s attention. “You need… to stay here with me, Wints. Unless they come into the house, you need to stay calm – don’t let ‘em know you know they’re out there. Okay, big guy?”

A final growl escaped Winter as his arms tightened briefly around Brock, but he seemed to obey – just not happily if the scowl on his face was anything to go by. Brock couldn’t help but feel warm inside; it felt so good to feel protected…

Winter eventually calmed down once it had fallen silent outside and Brock’s migraine had eased off. He seemed like a happy puppy now as he followed Brock everywhere, watching him strip the wet sheets from the bed and take them to the laundry before gathering clean sheets and making the bed with them. He detoured briefly for all of three seconds once Brock had gotten back into bed, and when he returned, it was with Stevie in his palm.

“Where the hell were you keepin’ him, anyway?” Brock asked tiredly.

Winter shook his head. “Safe place.”

Brock snorted; if that was all he was going to get out of Winter, then that meant the “safe place” was “safe” from him, too. “Okay, big guy. Get back into bed. Try and sleep some more; I got watch still.”

Winter shook his head. “You sleep. You are sick.”

Brock’s neck had been hurting long enough for him to have learnt that whenever Winter picked up on it, it was no use arguing; Winter turned into a mother hen whenever he knew Brock wasn’t well, and for some reason, _he_ always ended up being the one giving the orders.

Brock couldn’t help but laugh at the thought.

“Alright.” Brock rolled onto his side so his back was to Winter. “But only if you rub my neck again.”

Winter’s fingers were on Brock’s neck in an instant. Brock’s eyes fluttered closed, and he gave a soft moan; Winter had gotten good at this…

“He was there again.”

Brock jumped slightly at Winter’s voice, not realising he had started to dose off. He slowly rolled himself over so he could face Winter. “What?”

“Him.” Winter was frowning, his eyes darting nervously as he tried so hard to express himself. “He was there again. And there was a train. I…”

Brock swallowed nervously when Winter’s eyebrows furrowed. “…”

“…” Winter cocked his head to the side. “I… fell. And he was not there anymore.”

“Did you _want_ him to be there with you?” Brock didn’t know why he’d asked it; Winter didn’t even know who the man invading his mind _was_ – for all Winter knew, the man was just a figment of imagination.

“I don’t know.” Winter stroked his flesh fingers down Stevie’s back gently. There was a hint of distress in his voice, so when Winter leant over Brock to put Stevie against Brock’s side, with Brock between the duck and Winter, Brock was concerned. It was as if Winter was putting Stevie into _his_ protection instead – and if that indeed was the case, Winter could feel his growing distress and knew he might not stay in control.

To think that Winter trusted him enough to protect his precious duckling when Winter couldn’t… Brock felt his heart skip a few beats out of pride.

“Is he important to you?”

“No.” Winter shook his head. There was no hesitation in his response, and Brock believed him. “Commander is important to me. Stevie is important to me. But not him.”

Brock reached out to pull Winter closer. “You’re curious.”

Winter was hesitant now to nod. “But not important.”

Brock moved closer to Winter when he started to fidget. He wrapped an arm around him and held him so close, their chests were pressing together. “You keep gettin’ restless.”

“Restless…?” Winter didn’t even realise he’d barely been able to stay still, Brock understood.

“Yeah. Restless. You feelin’ okay?” Brock wasn’t stupid. Winter was conditioned to stay still as a statue for days if required – but with the programming breaking down and the lack of orders given to him, he probably _couldn’t_ stay still with the need to _do something_.

Brock could relate, really; years of military and HYDRA had him feeling agitated without anything to keep himself busy with – and feeling so emotionally flat definitely was only making matters worse when it was a struggle just getting out of bed every morning.

If Winter wasn’t here with him, there was no way Brock could keep pushing on.

“I don’t _want_ them there,” Winter growled. Brock hated that Winter was still fixated on their uninvited guests. “Not near you.”

“They’re not goin’ to hurt me, Wints,” Brock promised. He didn’t know how he knew that for sure. He probably didn’t, but Captain Rogers was a good man, and Brock held onto that knowledge firmly. “I don’t know why they’re out there… But I know one of them, Wints. He’s a good man. He won’t hurt us.”

Winter moved to rest his body over Brock’s protectively – or possessively, but Brock didn’t think he was capable of being given or even deserved that kind of attention. “They are observing us. They know where we are. They follow.”

“Follow?”

“Yes. Through the walls.”

Brock understood then; Winter didn’t know that it was Captain Rogers on the outside, and his sense of hearing was just as good, if not better than Winter’s – it was only too easy for the two to stalk each other with brick walls in between them. “Wints…”

Winter’s hands clenched by his sides, so hard that Brock was reminded of why exactly they had always sent him off on missions with gloves over his hands; the fingernails of Winter’s flesh hand dug into his palm so deeply, blood dribbled down onto the mattress. Winter didn’t know his own strength, and the reminder of that sent a shiver of nerves down Brock’s spine.

When Winter spoke, it was with a quiet, deadly growl. “If they hurt you… I will _kill_ them.”

Winter would, Brock knew. Winter was sweet to Brock, a curious kitten who only wanted affection, but he was vicious to everyone else – for good reason, of course; Brock wouldn’t trust anyone else if he’d gone through what Winter had.

Brock put his hand on Winter’s and squeezed. He stared into those confused, pained eyes always so full of _fear._ He wanted to talk to Winter, to tell him that he understood and he cared about Winter.

But Brock couldn’t. He didn’t know how. Any sense of sentiment he’d held when he was younger had been beaten out of him. It was something he knew Winter could empathise with. Any sense of caring or kindness he’d displayed had long-since been buried beneath anger and pain – the fact that he was still able to access what little was left for Winter’s sake was something Brock himself didn’t understand.

“Wints…” Brock cleared his throat. “…I…”

But nothing came out. Nothing except a squeeze to Winter’s hand and a soft murmur for him to come into the kitchen and drink some milk. Winter followed, but they’d barely made it three steps into the kitchen before Winter dropped to his knees with a scream that sounded eerily like a wounded animal trying to escape its hunters.

Brock was by Winter’s side in an instant. “Winter?!”

Winter’s eyes were wide, flickering side-to-side as he searched for the danger Brock knew he was certain was coming for him. He was still screaming, his body rocking violently as he reached up to rip clumps of hair from his head. He wasn’t reacting violently, but from the pure, inhuman _panic_ on his face, Brock knew it wouldn’t be long before the metal arm would be smacking him into a wall if he wasn’t careful.

Winter was hyperventilating. What few stuttered breaths got past his erratic inhales ripped at Brock’s heart. Tears rushed down his cheeks, and his little whimpers were the worst thing Brock had ever heard.

“Winter…” Brock knelt down in front of Winter; sneaking into his peripheral vision while he was like this was suicide. Cautiously, he reached out and put his hand on a quivering shoulder. “Winter, what –“

Brock was indeed thrown into the wall, but not out of any aggression; rather, Brock was certain he’d been backhanded in the chest with the metal arm because of the shield that had been thrown at them from out of nowhere. Winter caught it before it took Brock’s head off, and Brock had never seen him look so pissed off before.

“Bucky...” The man who had thrown the shield looked confused, like he couldn’t understand why Winter would stop Brock from being harmed.

Winter threw the shield at their assaulter with enough force to push the man back once it had been caught. “Who the hell is Bucky?”

Winter moved to step in front of Brock, who was slouched against the wall and gasping for breath as he clutched at his ribs. Winter was growling again, that same feral animal Brock had seen so many times back in the hands of HYDRA.

“Fuckin’ Rogers,” Brock snarled. His eyes flickered between Captain Rogers and his companion, a dark-skinned man he had never seen before. He remembered Winter’s words from before, about the stranger who had been watching the house. “You bastards can’t leave us alone? We had a deal!”

“That was _before_ I found out you’re holding Bucky prisoner!”

“I’m not fuckin’ holdin’ _anyone_ prisoner!” Brock snapped. He tried to get up from the ground, but he dropped back down with a hiss as his chest burned. “Fuck!”

“I trusted you, Rumlow. I thought you were a better man than this,” Steve growled. He stepped forward with all intent on grabbing Winter by the wrist and pulling him away, but he stopped when Winter snarled like a vicious dog and made movement of his own toward Steve. Steve stayed where he was, but his eyes were stormy as he glared at Brock and growled, “What have you _done_ to him, Rumlow?”

“Hey, I haven’t done _shit_!” Brock grimaced at the pain in his chest; by this point, he was boiling over with anger, and it took everything he had not to scream at Winter for probably breaking his fucking ribs.

The dark-skinned man who had been so quiet up until now raised his hands in a placating manner. “Cap… Let me talk to him for a few minutes. Okay?”

Steve didn’t look happy about it. He scowled, his jaw taut as he gave a stiff nod. The dark-skinned man approached slowly, aware of Winter’s cold, loathing eyes fixed on him. Winter made no movement towards him, so he knelt down by Brock’s side and slowly, _cautiously_ reached his hand out to touch him.

“Man, did he break your ribs?” The hand came closer. Before fingertips could so much as brush against Brock’s shoulder, Winter had thrown his body weight at the man and slammed him into the wall.

It was a mess from there, and Brock was _far_ from being in the mood to deal with this. He glared loathingly at Steve as he willed himself to speak past the pain and egg Winter on; Rogers fuckin’ _deserved_ it for being such a dickhead.

“Rumlow, call him off!” Steve snapped as he shielded himself from a nasty blow of Winter’s metal arm. The reverberation that bounced off the shield was almost deafening. “Rumlow!”

Brock’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Why? If he’s your _Bucky_ he should listen to _you_.”

“I know he takes his orders from you _only,_ Rumlow – now _call him off_!”

Brock clicked his tongue in irritation; Rogers was too fuckin’ annoying to deal with, seriously. “Winter, _dovol’no_. _Prekrati eto.”_

Steve snarled when Winter immediately dropped to his knees and bowed his head in submission, awaiting Brock’s next set of orders. “You have him trained in _Russian_? Like he’s a _dog,_ Rumlow?”

Brock shrugged. “ _I_ didn’t train him to do that. And it was the only way he would have stopped; he was gettin’ out of control.”

“What did you even _say_ to him?!”

“I told him that it was enough and to stop.” Brock winced and grabbed at his chest again.

“Why would he attack Sam like that?!” Steve demanded. Brock couldn’t help  but wonder if Steve was starting to doubt this was still his Bucky after what he’d just seen with his own two eyes. “What have you _done_ to him, Rumlow?!”

“He attacked because he doesn’t want anyone hurtin’ me,” Brock spat back. “Maybe your fuckin’ _boyfriend_ shouldn’t have tried puttin’ his hands on me and make Winter all jealous.”

“ _His name is Bucky_!” Steve roared.

“Was, Cap. _Was_.” Brock growled when the dark-skinned man - Sam, Brock had heard - approached him again; it was a shame Winter hadn’t at least knocked him out cold so Brock could have some damn _peace_. “What do _you_ want?”

“Hey, man, you’re clearly hurt,” Sam murmured carefully.

“You’ll be hurtin’ worse in a minute if you don’t fuckin’ leave me alone!” Brock hissed.

Sam raised his eyebrow. There was a small trail of blood at the corner of his lips, but Brock didn’t think he was hurt enough. “Cap wasn’t kiddin’; you really are a compact ball of anger.”

“ _Compact_?!” Brock howled. “Fuck it! Winter! Get -“

“- Hey, hey, I’m sorry; I take it back!” Sam held his hands out in that same placating manner he’d used earlier. “I –“

“- We’re the same fuckin’ height, you asshole!” Brock roared. “I’m gonna –“

“- _Enough!_ ” Steve roared. Brock had never seen him look so angry before. “Sam. You can talk to Rumlow. I need to talk to Bucky in private.”

“Winter.”

All eyes fixed on Winter as his quiet, yet deadly voice cut through the air like the Soldier’s favourite knife. “…”

“My name is Winter.” Winter’s face was blank, but it twisted into a dangerous grimace when his eyes settled onto Sam. “If you hurt him, I will _kill_ you.”

“No one’s getting hurt, big buy,” Sam promised in a soft tone. “No one.”

Brock forced himself to stay calm for Winter’s sake as he murmured, “Go with him, Wints; I’ll be okay…”

Sam waited until Steve had coaxed Winter out of the kitchen and into the living room before he turned back to Brock and said, “Someone from Hydra approached Cap – told him you’re keepin’ the long-dead Bucky Barnes prisoner.”

“I’m fuckin’ _not_ keepin’ _anyone_ prisoner!” Brock spat. He curled in on himself with a moan as his ribs ached in protest. “I’m _not_!”

Sam watched Brock for a while before he approached and knelt down to touch Brock’s ribs. He stayed calm as Brock pulled away and spat at him to leave him alone – much more colourfully, of course – and simply murmured, “If you’re hurt, you need your wounds tended to. I have no intention of harming you.”

“Not yet – not until the Captain convinces you I’m some sort of… Some sort of _monster_!” Brock spat.

Sam shook his head. “Steve’s worried. It’s normal for him to get scared and have his mind exaggerate the entire situation. That’s why I wanted to talk to you - make sure we know what’s going on.”

“ _Nothing_ is going on,” Brock snarled. “I saved Winter’s life - and _now_ look. The Captain thinks I’m some sort of fuckin’ _rapist!”_

“You saved Barnes’ life?”

“ _Winter’s_ life!” Brock snapped. “I saved _Winter’s_ life!”

“His name is Bucky.”

“He hasn’t had a name in seventy years until I gave him one,” Brock hissed with wide, loathing eyes. “His name is fuckin’ _Winter._ ”

Sam wasn’t going to argue; he knew it would get them nowhere. Instead, he changed the subject and did his best to diffuse Brock’s anger. “Barnes looks like he’s in good condition. He looks healthy.”

“He _is_ healthy.” If Brock’s chest didn’t feel like it was going to explode, he’d have choked sense into Sam. “I take care of him! I _feed_ him and I _bathe_ him and I fuckin’ _care for him_!”

“I’m –“

“- He’d have been _dead_ if it wasn’t for me! You got _no fuckin’ idea_ the shit they did to him back there! He still can’t fuckin’ eat normal foods or he’ll fuck up his stomach!”

Sam’s eyes searched Brock’s. Brock knew he should recoil under the intensity, but Brock was too hot-headed to be intimidated easily. They held each other’s gaze firmly, neither relenting, until Sam stated, “As I said; he looks like he’s in good condition. But _you_ on the other hand… You even been eating?”

Brock bristled defensively. “Who gives a shit?!”

“I do, man. I’m a therapist. Last thing I want is to know you’re in bad shape.” Sam softened now, his expression morphing into something vulnerable. Brock _resented_ it. “How are you doing? Okay?”

Brock sneered. He turned his nose up as he muttered, “Not gonna talk to you ‘bout shit like I’m some kind of pussy…”

“Alright, man, I’m not going to force you,” Sam promised. “Just tell me one thing, okay? Is Barnes _safe_?”

“Fuckin’ safer here with me than he ever was with those bastards! At least here with me he never has to worry ‘bout bein’ beaten and raped!”

“He was before?”

“Yeah! But not _here_ he isn’t! I got him _away_ from that! I fuckin’ told Rogers that’s why I wanted to get him away! Now look!”

“Why was he screaming earlier?” Sam frowned. If he’d found any reason to doubt Brock, Brock wasn’t sure he was clinging to it.

Brock shrugged. “Dunno. He’s been doin’ that. But I’m _not_ hurtin’ him, damnit.”

If Sam was going to believe Brock’s words, he probably wasn’t going to now that Steve had poked his head around the corner and hissed, “His stomach is bruised, Sam… Rumlow’s beaten him.”

“I fuckin’ _haven’t_!” Brock screamed. He ignored the pain in his chest and got to his feet so he could stagger to the Captain. “ _I fuckin’ haven’t_! I’ve done nothin’ but fuckin’ _love_ him! That fuck who told you I was hurtin’ him _poisoned_ him! I’ve _never_ wanted to hurt him in my _life_!”

“ _You_ poisoned him – you’re _HYDRA_!” Steve snapped.

“Whoa, whoa!” Sam got back to his feet and put his hands out, one towards each person in the room. “Guys, calm down a sec. Rumlow, what happened?”

Brock’s nostrils were flaring with anger as he snarled, “You wanna fuckin’ know what happened? HYDRA kept Winter as their personal fucktoy – and when they had no more use for him, they were goin’ to put a bullet between his eyes. So I took him away from that. I lost good fuckin’ men doin’ what I did, but I thought it was okay ‘cause I got Winter away and he’s been _safe_ with me. Then that stupid fucker who ran his mouth to Rogers knocked on our door one night, and when I wouldn’t let him take Winter, he fuckin’ _attacked us_. _That’s_ the bruisin’ you’re lookin’ at, Rogers; it’s from _cyanide poisonin’_. Not _Rumlow beatings_.”

Sam wasted no time in turning to Steve and saying, “Let me talk to Barnes.”

“He won’t talk to ya.” Brock couldn’t help but sneer now. “He talks to no one but me. He might grunt at you a little if you’re lucky, though.”

“Nonsense; Bucky will _always_ talk to me,” Steve sneered back.

Brock couldn’t help but give a bitter laugh. “He’s not your precious _Bucky_ anymore, Cap. He’s _my_ Winter.”

Brock was sure Steve was going to strike him. At the very least, cuss him out. But he didn’t, and Brock was certain that was only because Sam had grabbed him by the forearm and forced him back into the living area.

Brock sneered again as he nursed his chest against the wall. If they wanted to talk to Winter about how much of a shit person he was, that was perfectly fine. Winter wouldn’t say anything, good _or_ bad about him.

In the living room, Sam took one look at Winter’s de-clothed body before he nodded his head and said, “I think Rumlow was telling the truth, Cap; there isn’t much to suggest that bruising came from physical blows.”

“Of course it did!” Steve argued.

Sam shook his head. “There’s no bruising outside of his abdomen, and nothing to suggest a struggle or manhandling. And the bruising _does_ look more internal.”

Steve’s jaw went taut again. His expression was hard as he turned to Winter and forced himself to relax. Strained, he asked gently, “Did Rumlow hurt you, Bucky?”

Winter just stared at Steve with his usual dead expression.

Steve took it as confirmation as he turned to Sam and announced, “See?! Rumlow _has_ been hurting him!”

“Cap, he looks like he barely even understood he was being spoken to,” Sam pointed out. “Just… I think Rumlow was right; I think whatever HYDRA was doing to him has messed him up.”

“Bucky…” Steve swallowed thickly as he stared into the empty voids that were Winter’s eyes. “What did –“

“- My name is Winter.” Winter sounded as emotionless as he looked, and it was like a stab to the gut for Steve. “Winter is what my handler has named me.”

“Handler?” Sam swallowed thickly, careful about how he approached the situation. “What is a ‘handler’, Barnes?”

“Winter.” Winter’s eyes narrowed at Sam. “A handler ensures I complete my mission within the parameters and that I comply with every order I am given. You are not my handler; the only reason you are still alive is because my handler ordered I _leave_ you alive.”

“He’s _not_ a handler, Bucky,” Steve said softly. “He’s a sick, _sick,_ evil man who is taking advantage of you.”

Winter cocked his head to the side as he regarded Steve curiously now. “Who is… Bucky? My name is Winter. Why do you keep calling me Bucky?”

“Your name is –“ Steve was cut off by Sam grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking his head. Steve nodded when Sam whispered for him to go along with it for now. “…I mean… I’m sorry. Your name is Winter. I won’t call you Bucky again.”

Winter nodded. He continued on, in a harder tone now. Judging by his hands clenching against his sides, Rumlow really _was_ the only thing stopping him from murdering them both. “My handler is not evil. The Commander _protects_ me.”

“Bucky – Winter…” Steve took a deep breath. “…Winter, there’s a thing called Stockholm Syndrome, and if you come back to SHIELD with us, we can get you a psychiatrist who can help you through this.”

“I will not leave the Commander,” Winter growled. “I will protect him with my life.”

“He isn’t worth it, Bu – Winter,” Steve murmured. “He only wants to hurt you. If you come with me, I can take you somewhere no one will ever hurt you again.”

“He does not hurt me,” Winter snarled, taking a menacing step forward. “He does not hurt me and he lets _no one_ hurt me.”

“You hurt him just before,” Sam pointed out, careful about how he approached the subject. “You hurt him. You smacked him into the wall and hurt his ribs.”

Winter’s eyes went wide at those words. His eyes immediately overflowed with tears, and whatever near-blank aggression he’d shown just moments ago was replaced by an unnatural panic. He collapsed to his knees, hugging himself tight as he rocked violently, whispering to himself about how he’d tried to be good and he didn’t want to be punished.

“Sam…?” Steve wanted to reach down and embrace Winter tightly, but he knew not to – not when Sam was getting between them and keeping him on his feet.

“Don’t touch him,” Sam whispered. “He isn’t right.”

Sam wasn’t wrong. In just seconds, Winter had started screaming again, and he wouldn’t stop until Sam had gone back and dragged Brock in to sit him next to Winter.

Sam knew that Steve had so much he wanted to say, but now wasn’t the time; not when Winter was whimpering like a dog on death row and trying to nuzzle into Brock like his life depended on it.

Sam knew Steve wasn’t going anywhere without his Bucky, so when he found himself on the couch with a blanket over him and his feet dangling over the arm rest, he wasn’t surprised; he just hoped this could all be resolved quickly so he could get back to DC and enjoy his warm bed once again.


	11. Chapter 11

Brock’s ribs were probably broken, but he refused any and all medical assistance to find out. There was definitely something damaged there, but Brock hadn’t even needed to snarl and cuss that he wasn’t going to a hospital, because Winter had curled around him, vicious and protective and ready to take hands off entirely if they dared reach out to touch Brock and drag him from the bed.

Brock was spending his days in bed, sore and tired and waiting for the massive bruising all over his chest to fade. The only problem with this was that it left Winter alone with Steve whenever Winter left the bedroom. Brock knew of the implications, and apparently, so did Sam, because Sam took it upon himself to stop things before they even started.

“You need to call him Winter, Cap,” Sam was advising while they were on their own in the living room. “He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know who _he_ is – and if that’s Rumlow’s fault or not, you’re going to have to accept that.”

“His name _isn’t_ Winter, though, Sam…” Steve whispered, with absolute heartbreak in his eyes.

“He doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t seem willing to accept that idea, either,” Sam murmured. “Just let him be Winter until he trusts you.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, but that was before he heard the bed creak from the other end of the room. He grimaced at the idea of what could be happening in there, and when he looked back at Sam, his eyes felt wet. “What if Rumlow’s in there _doing something_ to Bucky…?”

“Well…” Sam wanted to be considerate of his friend’s feelings, but at the same time, wasn’t Steve being _a little_ childish? There had been no evidence to support Steve’s suspicions of Winter being abused. “If they’re both consenting adults…”

“But Bucky –“

“- Steve.” Sam put his hand on Steve’s arm to try and comfort him. “Steve, I don’t think Barnes has been protecting Rumlow as much as he has been because of that ‘handler’ shit. I think Barnes is genuinely infatuated with the guy.”

Steve looked like he’d just been told his dog had been hit by a car. “Bucky…”

Sam had to feel sorry for Steve. He knew the history between Steve and Bucky, and why Steve was trying so hard to get Winter to come back with them – but this Winter wasn’t even his Bucky, and it must have been unimaginably hard, Sam knew.

“Steve, just – He doesn’t know you,” Sam reiterated gently.

Steve shook his head. “I’ll make him remember me, Sam. I will.”

“That might not be such a good idea,” Sam suggested carefully. “Just let him remember on his own; trying to force him to remember might only scare him away more if he thinks you’re lying to him to take him away from Rumlow.”

Steve was bitter as he nodded. If Sam had known him better, he might have known that Steve wasn’t going to take his advice.

“I’m gonna go do some shoppin’; there’s nothing to eat here.” Sam clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Call me if you need me, okay?”

Steve nodded again. He moved to take a seat in the living area, curled up on the couch with his chin on his knees. He frowned when he heard the bed creak again, trying not to think about what could be happening in there.

Needless to say, when he heard the bedroom door open, Steve felt immense relief.

“Winter…?” Steve could have cried when Winter walked past him, completely oblivious to his presence. He was sure he felt a tear roll down his cheek when Winter stopped to cock his head at him with an air of pure disinterest. “Winter, I… What… were you doing in your room…?”

Winter didn’t respond in any manner; he only kept his head cocked, as if he were deciding whether or not Steve was worth his time.

“Well…?” Why did Steve care? Why did he want to hear that Winter was in there fucking around with Rumlow? Why did he want to break his own heart?

Winter was silent for so long, Steve thought he was never going to speak to him. But finally, Winter gave a flat, “Commander is asleep. I helped.”

“You helped…?” Steve was sure he was going to throw up.

Winter nodded. “I helped. Commander could not sleep. I helped.”

“Oh…” Steve sniffed. “Well… You know, you used to help _me_ get to sleep…”

Winter’s head cocked even further. He shook his head. “…”

“You did,” Steve said softly. “You… You, uh…”

Winter lost all interest at Steve’s hesitance. He turned around and continued his journey to the usual window he would curl beneath and keep watch from. He growled softly in warning when Steve got up and followed him.

“You know…” Steve was careful about what words he used here. “…If you… If Rumlow is… making you do anything you don’t want to do…”

Winter growled again. “…”

“I just…” Steve knelt down within arm’s reach of Winter. “If you want me to, I can… I can _do_ something about Rum –“

Winter had lunged and knocked Steve onto his back so quickly, Steve hadn’t seen it coming. Metal fingers wrapped around Steve’s throat and squeezed, his teeth bared and a snarl escaping. “If you hurt the Commander, I will _kill_ you.”

Winter let go at that, so casually, it was almost like he had scolded a puppy for peeing inside. He crawled back into his spot and kept his eyes locked onto Steve’s form, cold and distrusting.

Steve was nothing if not pigheaded. He stayed where he was and reached for Winter again. “Buck – Winter… Winter, I… I still love you. I will _always_ love you. I know you can’t remember me, but we… We were so much in love with each other, and… And if you want to go back to that, you just have to tell me, okay? I can take you away from Rum – from here, and we…”

Winter’s teeth bared again. His eyes fixed onto the hand that was coming towards his face, and he let it touch his cheek just long enough for Steve to lower his guard so he could snap at Steve’s thumb and bite it almost clean off.

Steve yelped as he pulled his hand away. He didn’t look mad. Winter hated it. He hated not knowing what to expect because it always put him on edge.

“That’s okay,” Steve whispered. His eyes were shiny with withheld tears. Winter wished they were back with HYDRA so HYDRA could beat it out of Steve completely. He felt his cock stir at the thoughts as adrenaline pumped through his veins.

Winter hissed when Steve tried to touch him again. If he were a cat, his fur would have bristled. He relaxed only when Steve pulled his hand away, but Steve had to remember that that also could have been because the bedroom door opened again and Brock’s footfalls could be heard.

Steve backed away, not out of fear of Brock – if it came to blows, there was no way Brock could stand a chance against him – but rather, things were easier when Winter wasn’t trying to snuff the life out of him.

Steve waited until Brock was standing before them, with a foul expression on Steve’s face, before he said, “I thought you were asleep, Rumlow…”

“Was.” Brock grunted before he reached his hand out and passed something to Winter. “Damned duck woke me up…”

Winter held his hands out and let Brock deposit the duck into them. He gave soft murmurs and nuzzled his face into the side of Brock’s thigh in apology. Steve felt nauseas at the sight.

Brock patted Winter’s head without a word before he moved to the couch and dropped himself onto it. Steve hummed thoughtfully, abandoning Winter to join Brock and try and get him to admit to abusing Winter – Sam may not have been convinced, but a confession from Brock was all Steve needed to beat his ass and take Winter and run.

“So…” Steve mulled over his next words carefully as he took a seat on the couch next to Brock, “…Bucky said… he helped you get to sleep.”

Brock shrugged carelessly before he fixed Steve with a dirty look. “What of it?”

“…” Steve battled the urge to grind his teeth and keep his hands from clenching. “…I just… That’s kind of… _Forcing_ him, don’t you think?”

Brock choked on his own saliva. When he replied, he was spitting his words. “Where the _fuck_ is your mind at, Rogers?! He brought me my painkillers and rubbed my neck! How the _fuck_ did I _force_ him?!”

“I heard the bed creaking,” Steve accused.

“Yeah – so he could fuckin’ lay down next to me and nuzzle! You’re fuckin’ _sick_ if you think I - I’m not a fag!”

“But you –“

“- It’s not fuckin’ gay when you’re just buddies givin’ each other a hand!” Brock snapped. “I don’t _love_ him, so it’s not gay! Even if I _have_ fucked him in the past! I was just helpin’ him out and nothin’ more!”

Sam had told Steve that Brock had admitted to loving Winter once before. Had Brock even been aware of what he’d said if this was what he was claiming right now? “…”

“So what I wanna fuck him occasionally?! So what I think he wants to be my boyfriend?!” Brock spat, only riling himself up more. “It’s _not_ gay, and I’m _not_ rapin’ him!”

Steve thought he understood the problem. Carefully, he asked, “Do you have a problem with gay people, Rumlow…?”

“ _No,_ I don’t fuckin’ have a problem with gay people! I have a problem with _me_ bein’ gay!”

Steve’s eyebrow raised. “But you don’t mind that Bucky wants you…?”

“I _don’t_ care ‘cause it’s _not_ love so it’s _not_ gay!” Brock snapped.

Steve’s jaw went taut, and his eyes were dark. His voice rumbled with the promise of danger. “So what you’re saying is, you’re leading Bucky on like it’s some sick game you’re playing.”

“Fuck you!” Brock snapped. He turned his attention to Winter as he growled, “Winter! Come here and show Rogers what we were doing just before!”

Winter bounded over happily, so reminiscent of an excited puppy, Steve wanted to bash Brock over the head with his shield. Winter climbed onto Brock’s lap and straddled him as he nuzzled his cheeks against any inch of Brock he could reach, his flesh and metal fingers rubbing tight knots out of Brock’s neck as he did so. Brock sneered at Steve, smugness in his eyes as if to say, _I told you so_.

“Good boy,” Brock whispered now, all anger he’d shown just moments ago vanished now that his attention was on Winter. He rubbed Winter’s sides as he kissed the tip of his nose. “Go back to what you were doin’, Wints. Such a good boy.”

Winter was getting braver by the day, Brock knew, if the way Winter licked a long, wet stripe all the way from Brock’s cheek to his temple meant anything. Winter did as he was told, returning to his place beneath the window as he watched Steve and Brock curiously now.

“See?” Brock hissed at Steve. “I didn’t _fuck him_.”

A clap of thunder sounded overhead, so unexpectedly, Steve couldn’t help but jump as old war memories flashed through his mind. He bit his lip at the sound of rain pelting down to the earth, but what _really_ got his attention was the way Winter immediately got to his feet and shuffled his way to the front door to go and watch the rain from the safety of the veranda. He turned back to Brock with his eyes narrowed. “You let him go _outside_ on his own _often,_ Rumlow?”

“What the fuck is your problem, asshole?!” Brock snapped. “He fuckin’ _likes_ to watch the rain! I’m not his fuckin’ keeper anymore! If he wants to go outside, he _can_!”

“He is clearly in no condition to be outside on his own,” Steve growled.

“He’s not a fuckin’ stupid dog that’s gonna run out onto the road and get hit by a car, you dumb shit! Why can’t anyone treat him like he’s a fuckin’ person?! If you’re so concerned, then go babysit him, fucker! Leave me the fuck alone!”

Steve only moved in closer. He grabbed the front of Brock’s shirt with both hands and fisted it tightly. He leant in so close, their breaths mingled. “You have no idea what you’re doing with him, Rumlow. He should _never_ have been left in your care. _Fuck you_.”

“He’s doin’ so much better with me than he ever did at _HDYRA_ , cunt,” Brock snarled back. “Go fuck yourself. He isn’t some _dog_ that’ll run away if it gets outside on its own; he’s a fuckin’ _person_.”

“And he deserves so much better than HYDRA scum,” Steve growled. “ _I_ love him. _I_ can give him what he needs. _I_ can _help_ him recover!”

“He doesn’t even know who you are,” Brock snarled. “He wants _me_.”

“Bucky would _never_ choose HYDRA, Rumlow.”

“He isn’t your Bucky, Rogers. He might never be again.” Brock sneered at the hurt expression that crossed onto Steve’s face. “You treat him like you treated your Bucky, you’ll only confuse and scare him.”

“Good thing I’m not going anywhere unless it’s with Bucky,” Steve whispered in a foreboding manner. His eyes travelled up and down Brock’s body, and Brock couldn’t help but shudder beneath the look. “I don’t know what he sees in you. Even when I thought you were with SHIELD, you were never my type. Can’t see how you’d be _anyone’s_ type, really.”

“Thank fuck for that; think I’d go hang myself if you ever hit on me.” Brock bit his lip to try and stop tears of hurt and frustration welling in his eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you, Cap? I thought we were cool with each other!”

“We were. Even when you told me you were HYDRA, I looked past it because you seemed so genuine in what you told me.” Steve shrugged. “But that was _before_ I knew you had Bucky with you and what you’ve been doing to him.”

“Winter is fuckin’ _safe_ here with me, so _stop rubbing it in my fuckin’ face_!” Brock shouted. “How many times have I gotta fuckin’ reiterate the same shit with you?! I _care_ ‘bout him, and I –“

Whatever Brock wanted to say was forgotten when he immediately snapped into commander mode at the agonised scream that came from his front door. He forgot about the pain in his ribs as he shot to his feet and moved as quickly as he could to see what had Winter so stressed out. Steve was quicker, though, and Brock was left well and truly in the dust of two super soldiers, one of whom was breaking down property fences as easily as slicing butter as he ran like the devil was chasing him. Somewhere in the back of Brock’s mind, he wondered if Winter even knew he was crashing through fence after fence after fence.

“Winter!” Brock couldn’t get far, though. Not with his ribs. He was forced to stop in the first backyard Winter had smashed his way through, doubled over with his hand clutching his chest as he coughed up blood.

Brock was powerless, only able to stand out in the pouring rain and watch as Steve held Winter in his arms, holding him close and shushing him as Winter cried out for his duck that, judging by Stevie’s unusual absence in Winter’s hair, had flown off.

Winter was almost hysterical. But Brock, who had worked with too many men in their dying moments, knew that the tears and screams were crashing _over_ Winter rather than being expressed from within. It was nothing more than a pitiful sight of seeing someone unable to express or perhaps even _feel_ emotion having no idea how the hell he was even supposed to _cry_ after experiencing something so emotionally excruciating.

“Winter…” Brock winced when the back door to the yard he was still standing in opened. He hated the quizzical look he was given by the neighbour, and all he could mutter was a weak, “I’ll fix the fence; sorry…”

Brock didn’t understand why Winter was letting Steve so close. Was his duck flying away that agonising for him? He’d cared about it _that much_?

Well, of course he had; that duck was the only thing besides Brock that had ever made Winter calm and collected.

If Brock had had his doubts about how much Winter had cared for that duckling, he didn’t anymore at the way Winter had stayed curled in their bed for the rest of the day, heaving dry sobs into his pillows well and truly into the next evening.

***

“You need a hospital, man…” Sam was frowning deeply at the sea of bloodied tissues covering the floor next to Brock’s side of the bed. “You coughin’ this shit up?”

Brock nodded. “Not goin’ to no doctor; I’ve had worse…”

“I’m sure you have, but man, you could have a punctured lung or something,” Sam advised. “If you’re coughin’ blood, you _need_ medical treatment.”

“Not goin’.” Brock curled in to Winter’s side and hid his face against Winter’s side. “I’ll sic Winter on you if you try an’ make me.”

“How old are you?” Sam gave a heavy sigh, knowing that antagonising Brock would get him nowhere. “Alright, then. Look, I used to be a parajumper, so I know my medical stuff. Will you at least let me look you over and make sure you aren’t about to keel over and die?”

Brock sneered. “No. Fuck off. I _hate_ bein’ touched.”

“Man, I can sympathise, but you’re really hurt,” Sam prodded gently.

“ _No_ ,” Brock snarled. “Fuckin’ touch me and I’ll cut your fingers off.”

Sam sighed. He cast a wary glance to Winter, praying that he wasn’t going to get his head ripped from his shoulders for what he was about to do – the pleasant sight of Winter, fast asleep and sprawled out on his front, was far more welcoming than it should have been.

“I’m not going to let you lay there and die.” Sam advanced on Brock, in a manner far too threatening for the situation. He ignored the sudden look of panic on Brock’s face, knowing that if he could just get Brock restrained, he could work on keeping him quiet next. “You think I’m _that_ horrible? I hate to break it to ya, but you honestly don’t seem that bad a guy as Steve tells me you are.”

“I fuckin’ swear if you come near me, I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out and paint the walls with –“ Brock froze up completely when Winter’s eyes snapped open, and he rolled his solid weight over Brock, almost crushing him in the process. Winter pressed off the mattress with both palms, his body over Brock’s as if he were shielding him from danger as he bared his teeth.

Sam felt his mood dropping as he murmured, “Hey, Winter? I promise you have nothing to be scared of with me, but I think you’re scaring your friend right now. I think you should get off him.”

Winter stopped baring his teeth as he looked down at Brock. He cocked his head to the side, clearly not understanding the pure panic etched into Brock’s features. In the back of Sam’s mind, he wondered just how well Winter understood human emotion if he was confused by wide, glassy eyes that weren’t seeing, and a mouth agape in a silent scream.

“Winter.” Sam knew it was probably the stupidest thing he could do, but he pushed Winter away by the shoulder and rolled him back onto his side of the bed. “You’re scaring him.”

Even with Winter’s weight off of him, it still took Brock almost two minutes to snap back to reality. When he did, it was with a soft sniff, a single tear that rolled down his cheek, and the blankets being pulled over his head so he could disappear beneath them.

Sam had his suspicions on what had been going through his mind now. With a gentle murmur to Winter to try not to touch Brock while he was hiding beneath the blankets, Sam went back out into the living room to sit next to Steve on the couch.

“You know, after what I just saw, I don’t think you’re ever gonna convince me that that man has been raping Barnes.”

Steve looked almost betrayed as he gasped in horror. “Of course he has been! He -!”

“- Cap, I gotta be honest here. I think _he_ has been raped himself. I really don’t think so, man; I think he genuinely does care about Barnes – the way Barnes reacts when he thinks Rumlow is in danger… I don’t think even someone suffering Stockholm Syndrome would react as passionately as Barnes does.”

“But…”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know for sure, Cap… But if you ask me, I think Rumlow is genuinely kind to Barnes. Probably the _only_ kindness he has ever gotten since he fell from that train. Cap, I hate to say this… But I think Barnes is head over heels for that guy. Might explain why he isn’t interested in us.”

Unsurprisingly, Steve took the news with heartache. Weakly, he protested, “Bucky will love _me_ again when he _remembers_ me, Sam…”

“Maybe; there’s always the chance. But, Cap… Go easy on Rumlow, okay? I think he was sincere in what he told you about wanting to get away from HYDRA. That guy’s been through some shit.”

Steve’s frown only grew. “But he –“

“- Is not keeping Barnes prisoner as his sex slave,” Sam promised. “Rumlow has been taking good care of him, and I have never seen anything to doubt this. Give the guy a chance, Cap – odds are, he probably _is_ the Rumlow you knew from SHIELD.”

Steve didn’t respond to those words. Instead, he looked to his lap and pondered. Sam let him be; he wasn’t Steve’s babysitter _or_ his therapist, and if Steve needed his advice, he knew where to find him.

***

Brock didn’t come out from under the blankets for almost two hours. Winter had stayed with him the entire time, laying beside the lump patiently as he waited for Brock to re-emerge.

When Brock made another appearance, his face was wet with tears, and Winter immediately reached out to thumb the tears from beneath his eyes.

“Why is Commander crying?” Winter whispered.

Brock shrugged. He avoided the subject by mumbling, “Don’t call me Commander, Wints… Just call me Brock.”

Winter hummed. “Is Brock malfunctioning because that man wanted to touch you?”

“No, I just…” Brock trailed off as fresh tears welled in his eyes. “…”

Winter let out an exhausted sigh. “I think I malfunctioned a lot because I did not want anyone to touch me. I just… malfunctioned. I did not function right. They always took me to the chair for it.”

“Do you… still get like that…?” 

Winter nodded. “Only Brock does not cause malfunctions.”

Brock let out a bitter laugh. “What kind of a pair are we, Wints…?”

Winter didn’t reply. He nuzzled in against Brock’s throat for a few moments before he pulled away and whispered, “Is Brock afraid of me touching you, too?”

Brock snorted. “No. Fuck no. C’mere, even.”

Winter moved hesitantly into Brock’s open arms. He snuggled in close, their fronts pressed together as he tilted his head back to stare into Brock’s face. “Commander?”

“Yeah?” Brock let out a pleased sigh as he closed his eyes and pressed his nose into Winter’s hair.

“Is kissing a malfunction?” Winter looked confused, conflicted as he asked. He cocked his head to the side as his eyebrows furrowed. “They put a girl in my room once. Made her kiss me and put her hand in my pants. They told me to kiss her back, and that it was okay. …So I kissed her. …They punished me and took me to the chair for another malfunction…”

Winter had whispered the last bit so sadly, Brock realised now why Winter was so dysfunctional when it came to intimacy – fucking hell, not like Brock couldn’t relate, anyway.

“It’s not a malfunction; they were just bein’ cunts,” Brock whispered. He put his palm flat against Winter’s cheek to make him look him in the eyes. “You did _nothin’_ wrong, Wints. You are allowed to kiss; it’s _natural_. I’ve kissed some girls here and there…”

Winter snuggled in closer and buried his face against Brock’s chest. “I want to kiss Brock.”

Brock didn’t hesitate to draw Winter into a deep kiss. For the first time, he reciprocated, slow and clumsy and uncertain, but _eager_ all the same. Brock moaned as their tongues danced together.

Brock pulled away only at the whimper Winter gave. “Are you okay?”

Winter stared down at his crotch, perplexed at the bulge in his pants. He looked back to Brock, questioning.

Brock couldn’t help but chuckle. Gently, he offered, “You want me to take care of that for you, Wints?”

Winter nodded. “Feels uncomfortable…”

“Yeah. Feels good when you do somethin’ ‘bout it, though.” Brock pulled Winter closer against him and lined their bodies against each other. He slid himself down the bed, tucking his head comfortably beneath Winter’s chin and rubbing his nose contentedly against his throat. He put his hand on Winter’s hip, their groins just inches from each other. Tenderly, he whispered, “You sure you want me to help you, Wints…? Remember, say _stop_ if you want me to stop.”

Winter nodded. “I want.”

“Okay.” Brock reached between their bodies to rub himself slowly. It wasn’t the easiest erection he’d had – what had happened earlier certainly didn’t help in getting it up – but still, it was one of his more sincere ones.

Winter had always had that effect on Brock; Brock wasn’t sure he’d ever understand why.

Winter watched as Brock rubbed himself to full hardness. Brock’s breathing was heavy, his eyes lidded, and his own eyes were focused on the growing bulge in Winter’s pants. He panted softly when he felt Brock reaching out to unbutton his jeans and pull the zip down; he could live forever on Brock’s touches.

Brock let out a little moan as he pushed both their pants down their legs. He wasn’t usually vocal during sex – especially before they’d even shed their clothes – but he’d always been like that with Winter; Brock didn’t tend to enjoy sex much unless Winter was involved.

Winter nuzzled his nose into Brock’s spiky hair. His voice was muffled, but Brock still recognised the shyness in his tone. “Want to kiss more…”

Brock tilted his head back so their mouths could connect. They stayed locked in a deep kiss as Brock pulled their hips together once they were bare. With one hand holding onto Winter’s naked bottom, he used his other to pull their shirts from over their heads, breaking the kiss only long enough to get the materials off their bodies.

“C’mere,” Brock husked. He held Winter firmly against him as he closed his eyes and thrust his hips forward to rub against Winter’s own arousal. Winter moaned at the gasp of pleasure, and his hips rocked forward of their own accord.

Winter froze at the realisation he had acted without order. He stayed tense, waiting for the scolding – but instead, a warm hand caressed his cheek, and Brock offered him a smile and kind words. Winter hesitated, but he rocked forward again experimentally. When Brock moaned again, he relaxed and continued his motions.

“That’s it…” Brock whispered as he moved his hips into Winter’s movements. “Good boy… Such a good boy…”

Winter whined loudly now. His hands grabbed at Brock’s back, the nails of his flesh hand raking down Brock’s back as his broken body tried so hard to endure the overwhelming pleasure. Winter had always been extra sensitive where his dick was involved, Brock knew from previous experience, and now that they were away from HYDRA, and Winter was recovering, Brock wanted to help him explore more of his own body and become comfortable with the idea of sex – honestly, it’d probably help Brock, too.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” Brock’s breaths were wispy. He had a tight grip on the biceps of Winter’s flesh arm, enjoying his own pleasure. “If you wanted… We could help each other out like this more often.”

Winter gave an airy moan at the suggestion. He scrunched his eyes shut and nodded, his hips jerking with vigour at the thought of doing this again. “I want… I want…”

“Yeah, that’s right, Wints…” Brock ghosted his fingertips against Winter’s cheek before he reached behind and grasped soft brown locks to hold onto. “That’s right. You’re allowed to want… Want whatever you want, Wints; I’ll let ya have it.”

Winter whimpered again. His nails scratched almost painfully now, his metal fingers squeezing with a surprising amount of restrain considering the situation. “I want…!”

“What do you want?” Brock breathed. He reached in between them again to rub the heel of his palm against Winter’s erection. “You can tell me, baby~ I’ll give it to ya~”

Winter shook his head furiously. He whined again, soft whimpers escaping him as he picked up the pace of his thrusts.

“Oh... So _that’s_ it, is it?” Brock drew Winter in for a deep kiss before he pulled away and murmured, “You want to come~ You’re allowed to, Wints~ You’re allowed to come~ I _want_ you to come.”

Winter keened at the attention. With all the speed of an attacking snake, he’d pushed Brock onto his back and leant only the weight of his hips on top of Brock, barely aware of the cry of pain from Brock’s injured ribs being jostled. He used one leg to keep Brock pinned beneath him, leaning the rest of his weight on his hands, spread out either side of Brock’s head. His thrusts were erratic now, desperation in his movements.

Brock moaned loudly, too far into his pleasure to even find fear in being crowded like this. His hands were tracing Winter’s chest, rubbing pert nipples as he went along. He wasn’t far away from his own climax, feeling ready to burst any second now. He arched his back from the back so he could close his eyes and suck Winter’s nipples into his mouth.

The only problem with fucking a super soldier was that, even though Brock had already spurted over his own stomach, Winter still had plenty left in him.

“Fuck...” Brock had to reach out and push Winter off him. Winter allowed himself to be moved, pushed onto his back as well, but his face was twisted with pleasure and wanting, and Brock couldn’t help but give a weary grin. “Sorry, Wints; I’m too old to go again so soon. But I got a better idea.”

Winter was whimpering with need, his hips rocking into nothing as he desperately searched for friction. His eyes were locked onto Brock, not even a bead of sweat on his body, despite the dampness of Brock’s own face and hair. When Brock curled himself onto his stomach and lay between Winter’s legs, Winter’s breath hitched; he knew what was coming, and he wasn’t sure he was going to like this or not.

Winter’s hand reached out to grab Brock by the nape of his neck, his flesh fingers squeezing only just tight enough for the grip to be felt. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, wanting so badly to say stop, just as Brock had taught him to, but decades of conditioning had him unable to get the words out.

But Brock understood the reaction. He lifted his head to meet Winter’s gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Winter shook his head. He licked his lips, his mouth moving wordlessly again for a few moments before he whispered, “I… do not like to use my mouth…”

Brock hummed in agreement. “I know, Wints. I don’t blame you. But I _want_ to make you feel good, so I _want_ this. Okay? You aren’t makin’ me do anythin’ I don’t want to do. I promise.”

Winter hesitated as he pondered the words. “…Brock will say stop…?”

“Mhm.” Brock nuzzled his nose into the inner flesh of Winter’s thigh. “Promise. I’ll stop if I don’t like it.”

Winter’s expression became firm now as resolve filled him. He gave a stiff nod, his eyebrows tight and his jaw a tad taut. Brock couldn’t help but feel his cock twitch in interest at the care and concern Winter was showing him.

With that, Brock moved his head further between Winter’s thighs and opened his mouth wide to take Winter into it. Winter let out a loud gasp as his hips thrust forward, earning a gag from Brock. He moaned as he forced his hips back into place, his metal fingers coming out to brush through Brock’s hair in concern.

Brock kept going. He swallowed Winter down deep into his throat, his nose tickled by the tiny patch of growing pubic hair the HYDRA techs no longer shaved down for whatever fucked up reason.

Winter’s fingers squeezed on the nape of Brock’s neck as his eyes slipped closed and he moaned loudly. He kept his hips in place, not wanting to choke Brock again, unable to stop his breathing from hitching into gasps and splutters as he tried so hard to contain his pleasure.

Winter came down Brock’s throat, for the first time without being told to. Brock choked again, pulling off of Winter’s arousal and spitting the release onto the floorboards. He wiped it from his face from where it had shot onto him while backing away. There was disgust in him, but not for Winter – _never_ for Winter; he’d been funny with other men’s release touching him for decades.

Winter had slumped back against the bed breathlessly, his chest heaving for breath as he stared dazedly up at the ceiling. Brock wiped them both clean with the blankets, and once that was done, he laid down next to Winter’s side and snuggled in close.

“Did you like that…?” Brock’s smile was still weary as he ghosted the tips of his fingers against Winter’s chest. He chuckled when Winter nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, me too.”

Winter rolled himself onto his side to move down the mattress and tuck his head beneath Brock’s chin. They were silent for so long, that when Winter mumbled something, Brock almost jumped from where he’d been lightly dozing. “Is it bad that I like doing this, Brock…?”

Brock took a few moments to reply so he could chase the sleep away. He shook his head. “Nah… Nah, you’re fine. Why?”

“…” Winter fidgeted uncomfortably before he whispered, “What is a faggot…?”

“Huh? Why?” Brock was awake now, peering down at Winter to watch his facial expressions twist in nervousness.

“My handlers always called me a faggot…” Winter frowned and chewed at his lip. “When they would make me do stuff like this with them… They’d tell me I was a faggot and that I was disgusting for wanting their cocks so badly…”

“Hey.” Brock’s voice was stern now as he reached out to cup Winter’s face. “You are _not_ a faggot _or_ disgusting, Wints. We’re just buddies. We’re just helpin’ each other out. Doesn’t make us faggots. We don’t love each other.”

Winter flinched at those words. He looked to the side, avoiding all eye contact. When he replied, it was in a hesitant whisper. “…Okay…”

They fell silent again after Brock gave more reassurance. But Winter was still self-doubting, because he was whispering again.

“I do not like girls…” Winter hid his face against Brock’s throat, muffling his voice. “Not when they… Not when they made me… _do stuff_ …”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t really enjoy sex with chicks, either, Wints,” Brock promised. “Not really. I just… I dunno; I guess I just sleep with ‘em ‘cause I’m s’posed to… But I don’t like it, either, Wints.”

Winter tilted his head back again to look up at Brock. “Brock likes men…?”

“No!” Brock couldn’t help but snap. He forced himself to calm down and brush Winter’s long hair behind his ears. He shook his head and said more softly, “No, Wints. I’m not… I’m not _gay_. I just… I’ve been with men, but I… I’ve really only ever enjoyed it properly with you and Jack.”

“Jack…?”

“Agent Rollins,” Brock whispered. “Sometimes we’d… We’d help each other out – sleep together. We were pretty good friends.”

Winter’s expression darkened. “Rollins made me do it, too.”

“I know he did, and every time he did it, I ripped him a new one when we were alone,” Brock promised. “I _hated_ that he did it to you. I did my best to stop it happenin’, Wints.”

“I know,” Winter whispered. He kissed Brock’s throat, nibbling for a few moments before he whispered again. “I _knew_ you did…”

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t stop all of it,” Brock whispered back. “But you’re safe here now. No one is ever gonna make you do that shit ever again.”

Winter nodded. He reached up to play with the loose threads on the blanket with his metal fingers, his mind pondering over the information. Once he’d pieced it all together, he whispered, “Brock has been hurt, too.”

For the longest time, Brock gave no reaction to those words, trying to pretend he hadn’t even heard them. But Winter was patient, and Brock knew he’d be waiting all day for a response if he had to. “…Yes… But, I… I deserved it, so…”

“Brock does not deserve to be hurt,” Winter growled. He wrapped his arms protectively around Brock and nuzzled close. “I _love_ Brock, and I will kill anyone who has hurt him.”

Brock pretended not to have heard Winter admit he loved him; Winter probably had no idea what love even _was_ and had just heard the term from somewhere and thought it appropriate for his purely-platonic feelings towards Brock, Brock was sure. “No, I did, Wints… I did. First one who did it was a foster family – saw me kissin’ with a guy from my class… So they took me into my room, held me down… And they _both_ raped me, my foster father _and_ foster mother… To ‘rape the gay’ out of me, apparently… And they kept doin’ it, Wints… They kept doin’ it for so long that I… I tried to kill myself.”

Winter whimpered at those words. He moved his flesh fingers to Brock’s face, caressing, doing what he could to bring Brock comfort. “…”

Brock snorted bitterly. “Even in the military, some guys thought I was a fuckin’ fairy, and if they weren’t trying to beat it out of me, they were rapin’ it out of me. …And with HYDRA… Fuckin’ hell, even with HYDRA, I… People wondered how I went from a rookie to a field commander so quickly…”

A single tear rolled down Winter’s cheek. Brock wondered if he even knew it was there. Before Brock could wipe it away, Winter engulfed Brock in both of his arms so tightly, Brock was sure he was about to be crushed.

“Shh…” Winter’s flesh fingers moved to grab the nape of Brock’s neck again, forcing Brock to press his face to Winter’s chest. “Shh…”

Brock closed his eyes and tried not to think about how this felt so much like a learned behaviour Winter had picked up from somewhere; instead, he drank in the comfort and closed his eyes, willing himself not to cry.

Brock didn’t cry, but that may have been because Winter’s comfort was enough for him to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

***

Winter stayed with Brock for the rest of the day, emerging from their room only to bring food to Brock, ready for when he would wake up.

Steve cornered Winter in the kitchen.

“We used to do that together, you know…” Steve looked miserable, and if his red-rimmed eyes meant anything, Winter knew he’d been crying earlier. When Winter didn’t react, Steve clarified. “Sexual things… We were… We were in love. We were boyfriends.”

“We were faggots?” Winter cocked his head to the side, trying so hard to understand.

Steve winced at the term. He looked so lost, so heartbroken as he whispered, “What has Rumlow been teaching you, Bucky…?”

Winter ignored the name-slip and instead stated, “Brock says we are not faggots and we are just buddies helping each other.”

Steve’s hands clenched by his sides. He shook his head, and quietly, he said, “That’s not true, Buck… That’s not true at all. You and I… We… No. Rumlow’s lying to you.”

Winter’s head cocked even further as he tried to understand. “So I _am_ a faggot?”

“Gay!” Steve cried. “Please, Bucky, don’t use the f-word! _Please_!”

“I do not understand,” Winter pointed out. “Is it bad that I love Brock?”

“You… love…” Steve shook his head. “Bucky, you _don’t_ love Rumlow. You love _me_.”

“I do not know you,” Winter reminded. “You were the man who let me fall from the train. You did not protect me; _Brock_ protects me.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, to protest and maybe even yell, but Sam had come home, and he had read the atmosphere and gotten between them to break it up before it even started.

“Guys.” Sam shook his head. “Talk it out. Don’t _fight_ it out. If you’re goin’ to lose your temper, Cap, it’s best to remove yourself from the situation and re-evaluate. You’ll get nowhere by startin’ stuff.”

Steve couldn’t argue; Sam was right, and Steve would only push Winter further away if he kept going. Instead, he gave one last look to Winter, a look of pain and longing, before he left.

Sam watched Steve go before he looked at Winter, looking tense and almost frozen in the corner. “You okay?”

Winter hesitated. His hands fidgeted with each other before he asked, “Am I a faggot?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“Am I a faggot because I love Brock?”

“First of all, the accepted term these days is gay – it’s like you’re self-degrading using the f-word,” Sam explained. “Second of all, it doesn’t matter if you’re gay or not, Winter; all that matters is no one’s hurting you and taking advantage of you.”

Winter was silent for a few moments. He watched Sam watching him before he announced, “I am gay. But Brock is not, and he will think I am disgusting.”

“Hey.” Sam was cautious as he came closer. He shook his head. “Hey, you’re not disgusting if you don’t want to be with a girl. And seriously, Winter… I’m ninety-percent sure that Rumlow’s gay, too, and just doesn’t wanna admit it. So I’m sure you’re fine.”

Winter hummed at the words. He nodded, seemingly content now. He moved about, gathering up food and drink and taking them back to their bedroom. Well, as long as Brock didn’t think he was disgusting like everybody else did, then Winter didn’t have to worry about if he was bad or not for loving Brock.

With that, Winter carefully deposited his stash on the bedside table before he crawled onto the bed and snuggled in close to Brock, purring at the warmth he loved so much.

Only one question remained; was it true what Rogers had said about them being gay for each other? Because if it was, what would happen if he fell in love with Rogers again?


	12. Chapter 12

Winter was long used to decades of isolation, but none of that compared to the turmoil inside of him that left him a shaking mess curled in the bed he shared with Brock, waiting restlessly for Brock to come home from where Sam had taken him away that morning.

The shaking kept getting worse. Winter’s eyes were trained on the clock on the bedside table, flashing tauntingly at him as it reaffirmed that Brock had been gone for five hours now. Sweat was rolling down his face, and his breathing was heavier than usual, reminding him of what Brock had called _panic attacks_.

Brock had told Winter that morning to wait for him to come back. Winter always obeyed his orders – he was a good little soldier, after all – so wait, he did. But his eyes kept getting wet, and his mind wouldn’t stop screaming that Sam had taken Brock away forever, and Winter was going to be waiting in their bed for him to come back until the day he died.

Winter sniffed back tears. His stomach felt funny, a feeling he recognised from when Brock had first taken him away from HYDRA, and he’d spent all that time throwing up.

Was Winter sick again? If he was, he needed Brock to look after him.

The bedroom door opened, and Winter looked to it excitedly, knowing that Brock had returned. But the excitement vanished, and his shaking started up again immediately at the sight of Steve.

But why was Steve making him shake now? Steve had never scared him before, and Winter knew he could defend himself against Steve if he had to.

Steve only had to take one look at Winter to see the vulnerability in him; had he become _that_ dependant on Brock…? He shook his head, not wanting to think about it.

Steve entered the room without a word, coming to sit on the bed beside Winter and look him over carefully. He frowned as he reached his hand out, careful not to touch Winter’s face as he rested his hand in the soft brown mess of hair.

“Are you okay, Buck?” Steve murmured.

Winter nodded, knowing not to show malfunction to these outsiders; it would only end badly.

Steve sighed and shook his head. He rubbed the tips of his fingers into Winter’s temple, massaging little circles and making soothing noises. He smiled sadly at the small whine Winter made as he pressed his head into Steve’s touch. “You like that, Buck? Yeah, I know you do; you always liked having your head massaged. We used to stay in bed together and I’d just rub your head, and you’d melt.”

Winter frowned now. He shook his head and pulled away at Steve’s words. He chewed at his lip before he accused hoarsely, “You let me fall… You never loved me. _Brock_ loves me.”

“No, I _did_ love you,” Steve whispered. When Winter ducked his head to stare at his lap, he reached out to brush stray strands of hair from Winter’s face. “I _still_ love you, Bucky. That’s why I’m here.”

“My name is Winter,” Winter mumbled. “You can call me soldier or asset if you want like everyone else did, but my name is Winter… Brock named me, and I _like_ Winter.”

“You’re not some pet he picked up off the streets and named,” Steve whispered. “Your name is James Buchannan Barnes, and I’ve been calling you Bucky since I was I was five and you were six and you stopped the neighbourhood bullies from stealing my paints.”

Winter’s expression was blank now. Steve wondered if he was trying to access the memory and couldn’t. Slowly, Winter shook his head and murmured, “You let me fall. You let HYDRA take me. You didn’t come back for me – not like _Brock_ came back for me.”

Steve sighed. “Bucky… I thought you were _dead_. _No one_ could have survived that fall.”

“But _I_ did,” Winter whispered, his voice distant and scared, his expression lost and lonely. “ _I_ did, Steve…”

“I didn’t know that at the time,” Steve whispered back. He brushed his palm against Winter’s cheek, testing the water to see how he’d react. Winter didn’t react much; Steve wasn’t sure he’d even felt the touch in his distress. “Hey… I have an idea, okay? I think it’ll help you to remember me – remember how much we loved each other.”

Winter gave no response; he only watched Steve’s face carefully, tired and scared and stressed and wanting only for Brock to return.

When Steve took Winter by the shoulders, Winter’s first instinct was to lash out and defend himself. But the grab was too familiar, too much like how HYDRA always manhandled him after successful missions. His mind wanted to scream stop, just as Brock had told him to do, but the other half of him, still compliant to his handlers’ wishes and obediently loyal, tried to tap into the same mindset the Soldier had always used in these moments.

But Winter couldn’t fully disassociate himself from what was happening. His expression became goofy, his mouth half open and his eyes lidded as he stared dumbly past Steve’s head and to the wall behind him, but his mind was almost completely aware of the way Steve had hold of his jaw and kept him in place to be kissed.

Winter’s mind screamed the one word he wanted more than anything to say, but without Brock there… _Was_ he even allowed to say it? He knew if he’d tried to tell HYDRA to stop, it would only earn him a worse punishment. But _Steve_ wasn’t HYDRA, so would he…?

It wasn’t worth chancing; Winter was just going to have to endure as he had so many times before.

“Open your mouth,” Steve breathed into Winter’s ear. His breath was hot, but it wasn’t pleasant on Winter’s flesh like Brock’s breath was. “Let me kiss you properly, please.”

Winter opened immediately. He scrunched his eyes shut, his heart racing as he tried so hard to get back into the Soldier mentality. He was shaking again, but if Steve noticed, he said nothing.

Winter _hated_ the kiss. So much. That same feeling in his stomach from earlier returned, and he was sure he was malfunctioning when he felt something hot and acidic climbing up his throat, so he forced himself to swallow it back down to where it had come from.

Steve pulled away. He was smiling, so gentle and tender, and his fingertips were warm against Winter’s face. There was nothing malicious in him that Winter could find like there always had been with HYDRA, but Winter didn’t care; he could only hope that it would be over soon so he could hide beneath the blankets and go back to waiting for Brock to return.

“Open your eyes, please.” Steve was still smiling. His tone was too… too _nice,_ like Brock was with him. It didn’t bring him comfort like it did with Brock; it only made him more frightened. “I want to see you. Did you like our kiss? Was it okay?”

Winter didn’t hesitate to nod – again, learnt behaviour from HYDRA to keep himself from being hurt more. His voice shook as he tried to hide his malfunctions. “Y-yes, sir… Thank you, sir…”

“Don’t call me sir, Bucky.” Steve kissed Winter’s lips again. He smiled. “Unless… That’s something you like now? Then you can call me sir.”

Winter nodded. “Thank you, sir…”

Steve’s hands trailed down Winter’s body, shaking from seventy years of longing. A single tear rolled down his cheek, unable to believe what was happening. His whisper was tender. “Is it okay, Buck? That I make love to you? It’s really okay?”

“Yes, sir… Whatever you want…” Winter had never thought he’d want so desperately to become the Soldier again, because at least then he could go to that place in his mind he always went to in times like these where he was barely conscious of what was happening to him.

Steve took that as full permission to rid Winter of his clothing and lay him on his back. He frowned deeply at the metal protrusions in Winter’s left shoulder that made up the prosthetic arm. He caressed the scarred ridges where flesh met metal, frowning and murmuring as he did so. He shook his head. “You are still beautiful to me, Buck. You are still so beautiful and I love you more than anything else in this world.”

Winter scrunched his eyes shut again, despite knowing it would go against orders. He stayed still, his chest heaving with more and more stress – by now, he was almost _begging_ the Soldier to come back so he could get away.

Steve pulled further down Winter’s body until his lips were wrapped around Winter’s flaccid shaft. Winter jolted with a whimper, but Steve, with all his misunderstandings of what was happening, thought it was a fearful reaction from his time with Rumlow. He pulled his mouth away and reached up to caress his stomach. “Hey, shh… It’s just me, okay? It’s just me. I love you, Bucky.”

Winter nodded. “Yes, sir…”

Steve knew no better. If this were seventy years ago, he’d have had his suspicions on why Winter was reacting so anxiously – but in seventy years, and especially at the hands of HYDRA…

Anxiety during their intimacy was probably the best thing Steve could have hoped for.

Steve swallowed Winter down again. Winter’s length wasn’t quite hard, but Steve didn’t mind; he knew his tongue could get him there.

And get Winter there, it did. His eyes were still squeezed shut, his body tense and shaking as he tried not to focus on the way his length betrayed him once again. He still couldn’t muster the Soldier’s mindset, no matter how hard he tried, and when he felt fingers prodding at his entrance, he found his emotions locking down, and the accepting of that he deserved this, and he no longer cared what was being done to him.

Winter didn’t make a noise when Steve pressed into him. He grunted and nodded when Steve asked again if it was still okay. He kept his eyes shut tight, telling himself over and over again in his mind that it was okay and it didn’t matter that it was being done to him again because he didn’t deserve anything different.

Winter didn’t make a sound as Steve moved slowly, _gently_ inside of him, so different to HYDRA, so _unknown,_ it was causing him more stress than the brutal fucks he was used to ever did.

The worst thing for Winter was the fact that Steve _didn’t_ come in him. It might have been more bearable if he had, but instead, the door had opened, and Sam and Brock were staring in at them.

Winter stared back at them, his eyes locked onto Brock’s, and more emotionlessly than he’d been in a long time, he murmured, “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

Brock was slack jawed for all of three seconds before he was screaming and cussing, trying to break free of the arms Sam had wrapped tightly around him to keep him from attacking Steve.

“You stupid fucker!” Brock was screaming so incoherently, Steve wasn’t sure he’d deciphered most of it correctly. “I’m gonna fuckin’ _kill_ ya!”

“He consented.” Steve wrapped Winter in his own arms, holding him close. “He _consented,_ Rumlow.”

“He _can’t_ fuckin’ consent with his _brains_ all fuckin’ _scrambled_!” Brock roared. “Not when he fuckin’ thinks he _has_ to let ya fuck him or he gets hurt!”

Winter was still mumbling, his eyes never leaving Brock’s as he repeated himself over and over, as if he was sure that once he had said it enough, Brock would indeed make it stop.

“Listen to him, you stupid shit!” Brock snapped. “He’s fuckin’ _telling_ you to stop!”

Sam stepped in, knowing he couldn’t hold Brock forever. “Steve, Rumlow’s right; he’s in no condition to be giving any consent.”

Winter’s shakes turned into quivers as his eyes welled with tears. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

“ _Get off him_!” Brock screamed.

“Stop. Stop. _Stop!_ ” Winter was screaming himself now, feeding off of Brock’s emotions and heightening his own. “ _Stop! Stop! Stop!_ ”

Steve leapt away quickly when that metal arm came swinging out at him. Once his body weight had been removed, Winter curled into a ball, still mumbling over and over, like he didn’t believe that Steve had backed off.

Brock’s screaming and death threats certainly weren’t helping matters, Sam knew. He pinched the bridge of his nose before he raised his own voice to be heard over everyone. “Guys! Listen to me! Nothing is ever going to go right when you all are at each other’s throats! Rumlow, Steve shouldn’t have done that, _I know_ , but as far as Steve understood, he’d been given consent. Now _listen_ to me. We’re all going to sit down and _talk_ so we aren’t always about to _kill each other_.”

“I’m not talkin’ to him – he’s just gonna try and say I’m abusin’ Winter!” The tears in Brock’s eyes proved just how hard this was for him. “And I’m not – I’m _not_!”

“I know,” Sam said softly, trying to diffuse the situation. Steve was being quiet on the other side of the room. Sam figured he already knew it was pointless arguing now that Sam had put his foot down. “I believe you, Rumlow. I really do. Look, I’m a therapist. What keeps goin’ on here isn’t good for any of us. Okay? So grab a seat and let’s just talk things out.”

“I’m not talkin’ to no fuckin’ shrink! I’m _not_ fuckin’ crazy!”

Sam’s expression softened. “Is that what someone has told you in the past, Rumlow? That you’re crazy, and you need to see someone?”

“So fuckin’ what if it is!” Brock snarled. “None of your fuckin’ business!”

“If that’s what someone has said to you, then they’re _wrong,_ Rumlow,” Sam murmured. “You’re _not_ crazy – I can see that for myself. You were a _soldier_ , and wars fuck the best of us up. You probably _are_ suffering PTSD from it all. But hey, so am I. So is Cap. And good ol’ Barnes here is a walking textbook example on PTSD. If you think we’re judging on that, Rumlow, we _aren’t_. We _understand_. And I don’t imagine HYDRA is kind enough to tell you this, but it’s _okay_ to be scarred, Rumlow. We’re _all_ damaged – all four of us in this room? We’re all just a basket case of problems – and that’s _okay,_ Rumlow.”

Brock’s eyes weren’t any less distrusting, and they were still flickering between Sam and Steve as he scowled. But he wasn’t yelling now, and that was progress. “…”

“Good.” Sam looked to the bed, pleased to hear that Winter had at least stopped murmuring to himself, though he had yet to uncurl himself from the ball. “We’ll let Barnes talk first.”

“Why are you pickin’ on Winter?!” Brock snapped.

“Because if you talk first, then I know Steve will be worried Barnes is only going along with you to protect you,” Sam explained gently. “At least if he goes first, he has no prodding to follow.”

Brock nodded, pleased by the explanation. “’Kay… But don’t fuckin’ grill him ‘cause he got enough of that shit from Pierce.”

“Nobody’s going to be grilled,” Sam promised. “Everyone is safe here.”

Brock watched carefully as Sam moved to Winter’s side. He chewed at his lip at the way Sam touched Winter’s shoulder so tenderly, whispering to him so only Winter could hear. He had no idea what had been said, but he hated the way Winter rolled over to let Sam onto the bed so he could lay his head on Sam’s lap.

Brock bristled. “Hey! What do you –“

“- I’m a neutral party,” Sam murmured as he ran his hand through Winter’s hair. “He needs the comfort, and you two would be jealous of the other in my place.”

It made sense, but Brock wasn’t much happier about it. He grunted in acknowledgement, wishing Winter would bite Sam’s fingers off.

“Okay. So, first thing is first…” Sam was as gentle as he could be when he finished the sentence, “…did you _want_ Steve to touch you like that, Winter?”

Winter didn’t hesitate to shake his head. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet, Brock wanted to hold him forever. “No… But I had to…”

“Had to?”

“Always have to. Not allowed to say no to anyone,” Winter whispered.

“Why aren’t you allowed to say no?”

“They hurt me otherwise…”

“Who is they?”

“Everyone.” Winter’s eyes darted around the people in the room before he whispered, “Only Brock does not do it to me. He makes sure they do not hurt me.”

Steve’s eyes met Brock’s. Brock knew the unasked question, so he nodded and growled, “I was the only fucker in near the _entirety_ of HYDRA who never did that to him. My friend was the only other I knew who didn’t.”

“Rollins?” Steve questioned.

Brock snorted. “Fuck no. I fought with that asshole more times than I could count about doing that. No, my tech friend – and said tech friend is the _only_ reason Winter is still alive because without him, he’d have been poisoned and _dead_. So if you ever got any plans to arrest him, I suggest thinkin’ twice, Cap. He’s a damn good guy and the _only_ tech who gave a fuckin’ shit ‘bout Winter.”

The words got through to Steve, Brock could tell. It was a bit of weight off his shoulders at knowing Murphy had his protection at the very least – Brock may have lost a lot of people, but at least Murphy wasn’t going anywhere any time soon.

Sam steered the conversation back to Winter gently. “But you don’t think _we’re_ like that, do you, Winter? You don’t think _I_ would hurt you?”

Winter was quiet for so long, everyone thought he wasn’t going to answer. But eventually, he shook his head and whispered, “No… I see you… With Brock. You do not hurt Brock.”

Sam nodded. “Mhm. Exactly. So that’s Brock and myself who won’t hurt you… Two people. And Steve? Do you think that _Steve_ would hurt you if you had said no to him?”

There was no hesitance in Winter now to shake his head and give a firm no. Sam was careful again now.

“So why did you not say no to him, Winter?”

“…” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed. His fingers fumbled amongst one another as he tried to express himself. Finally, he whispered a defeated, “I don’t know…”

Sam gestured to Steve now. “Is it okay if Steve talks to you, Winter?”

Winter was frowning again now, uncertain. “…Okay…”

Steve took a few moments to gather his thoughts before he murmured, “Bucky… I’m _so_ sorry, Buck; I… I really thought it was okay…”

“Steve, would you have stopped if he told you to?” Sam already knew the answer, but it was always good for Winter to hear it himself. “And you wouldn’t have hurt him for it?”

“Of course not!” Steve cried. “I would _never_ hurt him for _anything_!”

“You let me fall…” Winter whispered again. His expression was crestfallen, and Brock realised now that Winter may have had a much stronger emotional attachment to the memories of Steve _before_ he recalled the train incident. Brock couldn’t help but wince; the hurt and betrayal Winter must feel to remember only snippets of a past he didn’t understand… “I reached for you, and you let me fall…”

“I couldn’t reach you in time,” Steve whispered back. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “I tried… I really did, Buck… But I… I couldn’t reach…”

“It hurt…” Winter sniffed loudly as he stared down at his lap. His hands clenched the duvet tightly now. “It hurt, and you… You weren’t there… You are probably just lying to me to make me trust you anyway!”

Steve looked helplessly to Brock for help. Brock grit his teeth as he glared back at Steve, but still, he shook his head and turned his attention back to Winter. “No, it’s all true, Wints… Promise. That guy was _distraught_ over what happened. But he didn’t let you fall on purpose. You and him were… _very close_ … And he’d _never_ have let you fall on purpose, Wints…”

Steve had never looked so thankful towards Brock before. He looked back to Winter, glad to see that Winter was at least looking at him again now. “See, Buck? I’m sure that whatever you remember is frightening… But believe me, Buck, if I could have, I would _never_ have let you fall.”

Winter never responded, and without a cue, Brock shrugged, looked away, and muttered, “See, Wints? You can trust this guy. Okay?”

Steve flinched when Brock rounded onto him next, all five foot nine inches of him a compact ball of anger.  

Brock was almost spitting his words as he forced Steve to keep eye contact. “But if you _ever_ do that to him again, Rogers… I will kill you myself. You got that?”

Steve nodded. Sam was glad his unofficial session seemed to have helped, because he wasn’t sure he was going to do this again; he preferred to keep his professional life separate from his personal because he was their _friend_ and not their therapist.

But, oh well, if this once-off helped, it was worth it.

“Winter, why don’t you let Steve spend some time with you for a while?” Sam suggested. He ignored the dirty glare Brock sent his way. “I’m sure he has a lot to tell you, and you might have plenty of questions for him, too.”

Winter frowned for a few moments before he nodded. “Y-yeah… Yeah, okay…”

Steve smiled as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to Bucky. He didn’t miss the way Winter was still tense at his approach, as if he were afraid they would just pick up right where they had left off. “Can I give you a hug, Buck?”

Winter shook his head, his expression frightened as he stared off to the side to look anywhere but at Steve. But as Brock was leaving with Sam, he whispered, “Why do you keep calling me Bucky…? Did you name me, too…?”

Brock didn’t hang around to keep listening. Instead, he hurried out, mindful of his aching ribs that had been cleared by the hospital earlier as massive bruising and a single hairline fracture in his left ribcage. He scowled as he muttered, “If Cap thinks I’m ever gonna forgive him for fuckin’ rapin’ Wints, I…”

“He didn’t know; he thought he’d been given consent,” Sam said softly. “But I do understand, man. I’d feel the same way. He won’t do it again.”

“Winter _can’t_ consent!” Brock growled. “He _can’t_!”

“Man, don’t _you_ do shit with him?” Sam didn’t falter under the loathing glare he’d been given. “I’m just sayin’… If you can recognise he can’t actually consent… Hopefully you’re careful with what you do with him.”

“I am,” Brock spat. “’Cause I lo – _care_ ‘bout him!”

Sam hummed. “But you understand you could be doing him more harm than good, right? The poor guy’s been through a lot; just be careful, because you might not even realise you’re harming him.”

Brock’s anger dissipated at the warning. It was true, he knew, and Steve was a perfect example of that. He nodded at Sam before he left, taking his usual spot on the couch so he could sit on and ponder things.

When Sam came and sat next to him an hour later, Brock really hadn’t made much progress in his thoughts.

“You know…” Sam was tender with his words, Brock knew, “…Just some advice as a guy who’s been watchin’… I get that depression is a hard thing, but wastin’ away on the couch all day every day…? Think your Winter might like it if you take him out and do stuff with him, man. Just sayin’… But it’ll probably help _you_ to feel better, too.”

“I _don’t_ sit on the couch all day every day!” Brock snapped.

“Nah, you’re right, man.” Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Sorry. That twenty percent you aren’t on the couch? You’re in bed sleeping your life away. But seriously. Cap told me that Barnes loved to write a lot. Maybe… Takin’ him to a bookshop might not hurt him, hey?”

“…” Brock closed his eyes. Sam was right, of course; Brock _hadn’t_ been doing anything except keeping Winter locked up. And with his duck having flown off? Winter had been _doubly_ sad these days.  

Maybe… Taking him to a bookshop wasn’t such a bad idea.


	13. Chapter 13

“Bucky…?” 

Winter stopped pacing the living room at Steve’s voice. He turned around, his hands fumbling with each other as he mumbled to himself and stared at Steve with wide, on-edge eyes.

Steve, who had been sitting on the couch for the last ten minutes, was sick of his head spinning as he tracked Winter’s every erratic movement, like a man who would drop dead on the spot if he stopped moving for even a moment. “Why are you pacing? Are you okay, Buck?”

Winter’s mouth moved wordlessly until he whimpered. As frazzled as his appearance already looked, there was a wildness to him with his wide eyes that darted around the room. When he spoke, his tone was heavily stressed – but Steve knew nothing had happened that morning that should have set him off like this.

“Got to – got to move and – can’t let – no – I am a good soldier – keeping watch – Commander –“ Winter would have kept stringing bits and pieces together forever had Steve not gently interrupted him.

“You need something to do,” Steve realised with a frown. “Your mind isn’t stimulated enough…”

Winter’s whimper was long and loud. Was that what was wrong with him? He needed something to do? “…”

Steve wanted to reach out and take Winter in his arms, but despite the week that had passed since Sam had sat them all down and talked to them, Winter still hadn’t gotten okay with the idea of Steve touching him. He was okay with Sam now, but Steve…

Well, Steve knew he had no one to blame but himself for that.

“Come here.” Steve patted the couch next to him, inviting Winter to sit beside him. Winter obeyed, if only because he was used to being ordered around. He waited until Winter was safely on the couch, tucked against the armrest to put as much distance between them as possible, before he gathered up his sketchbook from the coffee table and held it out to Winter. “Look. I’ve been drawing today. You used to love looking through my sketchbooks, so do you – Bucky…”

Steve couldn’t deny it hurt for Winter to drift off and completely ignore him, but what could he do? Winter wasn’t the same Bucky he had known in the forties – hell, he probably wasn’t the same _Steve_ from the forties either – but still…

It would at least be nice if Winter didn’t keep drifting away whenever they were alone…

It was the restlessness, Steve figured. Bucky was fidgeting way too much, a nervous energy thrumming through him, like he thought somebody was going to burst through the front door any second now.

“Bucky, nobody’s coming,” Steve promised. “SHIELD doesn’t know about this, and as far as they know, I’m out rounding up HYDRA operatives. Nobody’s coming. I promise.”

Winter shook his head. His flesh fingers raked their nails along the metal wrist of his left arm, and Steve had never been so glad it was a prosthetic; with the strength he was using to claw at himself, he’d have torn his wrist apart in seconds. “They are… HYDRA. They are coming. They will be back, Steve – to get me and Brock.”

“HYDRA’s fallen,” Steve murmured. “You have nothing to fear.”

Winter shook his head. He was speaking erratically again now, stringing incomplete sentences together until Steve had no idea what he was trying to say.

“Hey.” Steve put his hand on Winter’s knee to try and sooth him. It had to be the way Winter was cooped up that was causing this reaction; his mind was on overdrive and trying to comprehend the only thing he knew. “ _Nothing_ is going to happen, Bucky. I promise. You’re _safe_.”

“They know where we live.” Winter’s breathing was becoming more and more erratic until he was almost hyperventilating. “They came once already – they are taking too long. They are planning… They are going to get Brock – they’re planning – they’re taking too long to come back and I –“

“- Bucky.” Steve was firm now. He shook his head. “Nobody’s coming. And even if they did, you have _me_ here. _Nobody_ is getting past the two of us, Buck. They’d need to bring an entire army to do that.”

Winter was clawing at himself again, bordering on a panic attack. No wonder he freaked out so easily; how the hell was he supposed to get better when Brock was always too neck-deep in his own depression to help him?

Steve should go and get Sam, he knew. But Sam had already made it clear that he was here as Steve’s friend and not a therapist. Sam had no problem offering kind words and advice, but Steve could understand not wanting to get his professional life too deeply intertwined in his personal relationships.

“Breathe, Bucky. Breathe.” Slowly, ever so slowly, Steve wrapped his arms around Winter and held him against his chest. Winter was still shaking, rocking himself self-soothingly as little whimpers escaped. “Deep breath in.”

Winter curled himself against Steve’s body like a child seeking its mother’s comfort. Steve figured it was the warmth he radiated like a furnace now that Winter was after, but no matter the reason, Steve wasn’t going to let him go, not even when Winter’s panic slowly subsided and instead he laid quietly in Steve’s arms, staring at the wall across from them.

When Winter whispered again, Steve was taken by surprise. “When is Stevie coming back…?”

“Your duck?” Steve whispered back. He dragged his fingertips along Winter’s scalp, massaging gentle circles. He frowned when Winter nodded. “…I don’t know, Buck… But I’m sure he’ll come back. Maybe he just… He just wanted an adventure.”

Winter tilted his head back to look into Steve’s face. “Adventure…?”

Steve nodded. “Maybe he wanted to see what’s outside. I’m sure he’ll come back, Buck.”

“…” Winter’s flesh fingers curled into the sleeve of Steve’s shirt. “…I want to go outside, too…”

“Hmm?” Steve rested his nose against the top of Bucky’s head. “You don’t like being inside?”

Winter’s eyes were pained as he whispered, “I’m not allowed to want or like… But Brock… says it is okay if I do… I want to go outside with Brock. I like… when Brock takes me in the car. I like to see…”

Steve frowned. He tilted Winter’s head to the side to press his lips to his temple. “What if I took you outside?”

Winter shook his head. His eyes were wary now. “No… Only Brock.”

Steve sighed heavily. “Why do you like him so much, Bucky? Do you not remember how close we were?”

“Yes… But Brock needs me. You don’t need me anymore. You have your friend.”

“Sam is my friend, but so are you.” Steve’s patience never dwindled. “I will _always_ need you, Buck. Why does Rumlow need you?”

“He gets…” Winter frowned as he tried to find the right word, “…not… not…”

Steve was horrified to see the way Winter had to pull his lips up into a smile with his fingers to express the word he did not understand. Steve’s heart was broken as he corrected the behaviour. “Sad…”

Winter nodded. “Sad. He needs me because he gets sad.”

“But _you_ get sad, too, don’t you?” Steve cupped Winter’s face.

“Yes… But Brock takes care of me. …He lets me lick an ice cream stick when I am sad…”

“Do you need _him,_ too?” Steve whispered, not wanting to hear the answer; deep down, he already knew what it would be.

“Yes.” Winter’s response was firm. “I do not know what to do without him. He tells me what to do and he takes care of me in return for my protection and loyalty.”

“He tells you what to do?” Steve was horrified to think that Brock was still controlling Winter, using him as a pawn to get the things he wanted.

“Yes. He tells me when to have my bath, and how to use… _spoons_ , and when we are going to bed. Sometimes he tells me I have to have something to do so I don’t sad again, so he tells me to go into the van and clean all the rifles and make sure they are still in good condition.”

Steve understood now; Winter needed orders to function properly, so Brock gave him orders – but nothing cruel, nothing harsh, just… enough to keep Winter’s mind busy. “Why do you love him, Bucky…? What has he ever done that’s good enough for you to love him…?”

“He protected me. He bathed me after everyone used me, and he stayed and watched to make sure nobody hurt me. He always made them stop when they…” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed as he frowned, “…when they went below my waist. He told me I was a _he_ , and he gave me a name and his touches were the only ones that never hurt me or made me… made me feel… feel…”

“Scared…?”

Winter nodded. “I love him because he… is _gentle_ to me…”

“How do you know you just don’t love him as a friend…?”

“No. I am gay for Brock. I love Brock.” Winter shook his head. “I am gay for him. He makes me hard in my dreams.”

Winter barely even knew his own name, so there was no way Winter could know that he loved someone – not when he’d endured so much abuse for the past seventy decades and most likely blurred the lines between gratitude and friendliness for the kindness Brock had given him. Steve knew this, and he wanted Winter to know that, too.

“Okay. Then why does Rumlow love _you,_ Bucky?” Steve knew it was a cruel thing to ask, but he wasn’t giving up so easily on getting him back.

“I…” Winter was frowning again. He looked so confused, Steve almost felt bad about asking.

But Steve _shouldn’t_ feel bad – not for opening Winter’s eyes to the fact that Rumlow _couldn’t_ love Bucky. There was no way anyone could fall in love with someone who had been as damaged as Winter was – was _still_ damaged. It was impossible; all it was was taking advantage of Winter’s vulnerable mental state.

But when a single tear rolled down Winter’s cheek, Steve _did_ feel horrible; Winter had never known kindness from anyone except Brock, and here Steve was, ripping away the fragile trust and affection Winter genuinely felt for someone…

“I’m sorry, Buck; I don’t know why I asked that,” Steve whispered. He stood up. “Stay here.”

Winter watched with teary eyes as Steve left the living room, only to return with a sleepy Brock in tow. Winter stood and immediately wrapped his arms around Brock, letting out small, anxious whines. Brock returned the embrace, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he gave a confused look to Steve. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I… upset him…” Steve sighed.

Brock rubbed the sleep from his eyes before he rubbed his face against Winter’s shoulder. “Hey, big guy… Easy…”

Winter let out a loud whine before he whispered, “Does Brock love me…?”

Brock didn’t know how to respond. “Uh… Wints, c’mon… Y’ _know_ I care ‘bout you… I _do_ love you – in a… non-gay way…”

Winter choked on a sob before he wailed, “But I am _gay_ for Brock! I love Brock so much! I don’t want Brock to hate me!”

“Hey, hey, I don’t hate you – shh…” Brock rubbed Winter’s back, massaging into his taut shoulder blades and ghosting his thumb into the flesh that met the back of the metal plating. “Shh… Shh… I don’t hate you, Wints; I don’t care if you’re gay for me ‘cause I… I’m okay with that. Okay? I’m okay with that. I don’t kiss just _any_ guy, even if they _are_ my buddy, Wints.”

“Why do you love him?” Steve’s question came so abruptly, Brock flinched at the iciness of his tone. “Rumlow. Why do you love Bucky?”

“I –“ Brock cut himself off before he could snap at Steve. He took a deep breath, knowing that if he wasn’t careful, he’d only upset Winter more. He shook his head, knowing he could continue this discussion later when Winter wasn’t around, so he changed the subject, tender as he rubbed Winter’s back. “Wints, wanna go for a drive? Get some fresh air?”

Winter’s eyes were puppy dog eyes as he jutted his bottom lip out and nodded slowly. Brock patted his arm, giving a weary smile. Winter obeyed when he was told to get his boots, fetching them from their bedroom and bringing them to Brock. He sat down again, watching Brock place the boots on his feet.

Steve watched Winter sniffle a few times before he leant down to tap Brock on the shoulder and murmur, “Take him to do something fun.”

Brock grumbled under his breath before he addressed Steve clearly. “Why the fuck you not comin’? You’re s’posed to be his friend.”

Steve blinked. He took a moment to respond, but when he did, it was with genuine confusion. “I didn’t think you’d want me to come…”

Brock shrugged as he gave an uncomfortable mumble. “Don’t care either way…”

“Well, in that case…” Steve gave his body a once-over to see if he was missing anything, “…where are we going?”

Brock shrugged again. “Wherever…”

Steve stayed on the couch, waiting patiently as Brock took Winter back to the bedroom to brush his hair and teeth. He followed happily once they were ready to leave, taking a seat in the middle of the truck to let Winter look out the window.

The drive was peaceful. Winter stayed focused on the window, watching the world go by with wide, curious eyes. His flesh hand was on the window, clenching lightly every time he saw another car on the quiet, almost dead streets, and Steve gave it brief thought that Winter probably hadn’t seen the outside world like this until Brock had taken him from HYDRA.

Steve made quiet talk with Brock. Not about anything in particular, just chit-chat to fill in the silence. He was comfortable, and he could see the way Brock’s usually-rigid shoulders were slowly loosening. Brock was getting comfortable with him, but Steve couldn’t think too much on it – not when a deafening crash had come from his right, Winter had been thrown into his side, and his whole world went black when the truck veered head on into a traffic light pole.

Winter tried to blink past the blood pouring down his face and blurring his vision. He tried to tug his right arm free and wipe the blood out of his eyes, but it was trapped between something. He growled and lashed out with his metal arm, trying to free it, but it was useless; whatever was pinning him was too big and heavy to be moved so easily on such an awkward angle.

Winter could hear Brock on the other side of the truck, groaning and whimpering. His face was bloodied as well, face-down against the steering wheel that had been painted red. His body was twitching, but he didn’t seem entirely conscious; Winter knew from experience that Brock would have been alert at the way the driver’s side door was ripped open if he were.

“Leave the traitor; he’s going to die soon anyway. Get the asset; leave the others.”

Winter knew that voice, but his brain was clouding too much to know where he’d heard it from. He growled, his vision fading in and out.

“Keep that metal arm contained; cyanide takes him down if he gets too wild. Don’t let him get a grip on you or you’re a goner.”

Winter snarled when he felt hands on the metal plating. He lashed out, trying to knock whoever had hold of him away, but the hands were persistent. He couldn’t see past the blood, couldn’t see who was grabbing him and cuffing his metal wrist to his flesh forearm. He snarled again as whoever had him tried to tug his flesh arm free of its confines; whatever they were doing, he could feel his flesh soaking in fresh blood as the skin shredded from its entrapment.

“Don’t damage the asset, idiot! We need it alive and in one piece!”

“Its arm is stuck past the bulbar and grill! I can’t get it out at the angle it’s at!”

“Break its arm and slide it out! Let’s go! Hurry up!”

Winter thrashed wildly, but there was nothing he could do except struggle against the hands that were breaking bones in his arm and leg to free the limbs and drag him out of the truck. He snarled loudly at the bag that was put over his head, and when he felt multiple sets of hands dragging him into another vehicle, he threw his body weight around wildly to take out whoever he could.

Someone grabbed his metal arm and forced the plates apart. He remembered the last time his arm had been messed with, and he recognised the same plates being pulled away that Murphy had had to repair.

Winter gave one last snarl when he felt something in the arm being messed with before the familiar flooding of liquids filled his body.

“I’m surprised that idiot didn’t take out the last of the cyanide – must have had brains enough to know not to trust it.” Winter flinched at the laughter right next to his ear. “Rumlow still needed an out for when he’d finally lose control of the asset.”

“Hail HYDRA.”

“Hail HYDRA.”

Winter’s mind clouded again, but this time, his unconsciousness faded with it.

*******

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

Winter recognised his surroundings. He knew where he was, but knowing or not knowing made no difference to his situation; he’d been given his orders, to sit and wait in his room for somebody to come and get him for his next mission.

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

Winter didn’t mind waiting. He’d waited for longer before, and here, he was with his handler who had been taking care of him. He didn’t know how long he’d been back here for – there were no windows in this room and he hadn’t been taken out of it yet – but it didn’t matter; all that mattered was his handler’s wishes.

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

He raised his head curiously at the sound of screaming from outside his room. He didn’t otherwise react – he hadn’t been ordered to – but it was indeed curious to wonder what was going on out there.

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

The door to his room opened, and his handler walked in, knife in hand. He was grinning ear to ear as he regarded Winter with glinting eyes. He passed the knife over. “Go quieten down our guests, Soldier. Make sure they never make another noise again.”

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

Winter got to his feet slowly, his eyes never breaking eye contact with his handler’s. He stood and stalked from his room, finding the commotion crouched down at the end of the corridor, a young, bloodied woman screaming for her life. Her screams grew louder at Winter’s approach, her eyes fixated on the knife in his hand as he advanced slowly on her.

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

Her screams stopped, and her body fell still. Winter felt nothing at the blood on his gloves and tac gear.

_Longing, rusted, furnace, daybreak, seventeen, benign, nine, homecoming, one, freight car._

***

The door to Winter’s room opened again. Winter looked up, his expression blank. He was emotionless to the blood on his handler’s face, the panic in his expression as he barked orders at Winter to go out and eliminate intruders who had broken in and were raising hell.

Winter stalked past his handler, a single knife placed in his hand as he went by. He stalked through the corridors, up the stairs, and into one of the containment rooms to lay in wait. He heard the approach, his keen hearing picking up three sets of hurried footsteps. He stayed crouched, hidden behind shipping crates just before the roller doors.

“His holdin’ cell is further down; he’ll either be in there, or in his room.” It was a gruff, almost hoarse voice. Winter felt no recognition of it; only the need to carry out his orders.

The intruders came through the doorway. Winter made his move, kicking the big blond man back into the connecting room, slashing the chest of the dark-skinned man open and bringing him to his knees, and hitting the button next to the roller doors to close them and keep two of the intruders locked inside with him.

“Winter, stop! It’s me!” The man with the sniper rifle in his arms dropped it to the ground in favour of holding his hands out in front of him. “Winter!”

Winter backhanded the man away from him with his metal arm. His body hit the roller doors with a sickening crunch, and the cry he made as he collapsed onto the cement below was almost as bad. Winter turned to the dark-skinned man, ignoring the way he pounded against the wall and called for somebody named Steve.

“Winter! Stop!” The man with the rifle was back on his feet, but Winter could see he hadn’t stood easily – and the blood flowing from his nose already told him more than enough. “It’s me! Brock! Stop!”

Winter turned back to the man named Brock and kneed him in the stomach. Brock’s eyes widened and he coughed blood up, but still, he was calling for Winter when he dropped to his knees.

“Damnit, Steve, do something!” The other man was still pounding at the wall, his fists hitting harder when Winter started approaching him again. “Steve! Open the door!”

There was muffled shouting on the other side of the wall. Winter was getting closer, but he stopped again when Brock threw something at him.

“Leave him alone, Wints!” Brock ordered. “Sam, get that fuckin’ door open again! It’s a passcode!”

“What’s the passcode?!”

“Fuckin’ –“ Brock had to think for a moment, but the code he _knew_ was correct didn’t work when Sam input it; it must have been changed, and in that case, they were fucked. He threw himself out of the way of Winter’s punch, trying to ignore the burning pain all throughout his body. “Winter, _stop it_! You _know_ me!”

“I don’t know _anyone_ ,” Winter snarled. He kicked Brock in the face, sending him flying once again. He used his weight to pin Brock to the ground and break his arm, dislocating it from his shoulder for good measure. He left Brock, knowing he couldn’t let Sam open the doors in case there were more intruders waiting.

“Shit shit fucking _damn_!” Sam hissed to himself as he pressed any and all buttons on the keypad in hopes it would do something; the last thing he wanted was to die at Winter’s hands – he’d heard the stories, and he wasn’t keen on being one himself.

“Winter!” Brock’s front was covered in blood, his left arm snapped to pieces and hanging uselessly from his shoulder. He screamed trigger words desperately, trying to put Winter back in a docile state where he would kneel quietly and await orders – but if the emergency trigger words weren’t working, what the _fuck_ did HYDRA do to his mind? “Goddamnit, Winter, fucking _stop_! You _know_ us!”

Winter ignored Brock’s shouting as he continued on his way to Sam. He stopped only when the rifle fired from behind him, and a bullet ricocheted off his metal arm – it hadn’t been a miss, Winter knew; that man had _wanted_ to hit the arm. A distraction, but no matter; none of them were going anywhere any time soon, so Winter could take his time with them both.

Brock’s screams had Sam shaking as he tried so hard to concentrate on getting the door open. Cold sweat was dripping down his face as he tried not to focus on the memories from his time in the tours – getting lost in traumatic memories would only serve them a swifter death.

But it was hard not to go back to all that time ago when Sam _couldn’t_ block out the sounds of bones breaking and flesh tearing from behind him.

Sam tasted bile in his mouth at the gargle in Brock’s throat. He chanced a look, and he quickly wished he hadn’t at what he saw; Brock, covered almost entirely in blood, legs broken in multiple places, arms snapped to bits and ribs poking out of flesh.

The worst part of it all was seeing the way Brock _still_ extended a broken arm, choking on the blood pooling in the back of his throat as his eyes searched Winter’s desperately. His broken fingers were sticky as they ghosted against Winter’s cheek, and somehow, despite his chokes and gargles, he still forced out, “You _know_ me, Wints… And I _love_ you… Stop…”

Sam was frozen in place as Winter took Brock by both shoulders and slammed him repeatedly into the cement until his body was twitching and blood pooled around his head.

“Fuck…” Sam knew his only chance was getting that door open and getting Steve back here, but it wasn’t looking like it was going to be happening any time soon; a painful death looked more in the cards right now. “Oh, shit, man…”

Winter was back advancing on Sam. Sam tapped away at the keypad with shaking, erratic presses that hit metal more than they did buttons. From the corner of Sam’s eye, he saw Brock roll himself slowly onto his side, coughing blood onto the cement to clear his troat before he screamed hoarsely, “Winter! I said, _leave him alone_!”

Winter’s metal fingers were so close to wrapping around Sam’s throat, Sam felt the coolness against his flesh. But before they could close and squeeze the life out of Sam, Winter dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, his head bowed obediently as he stayed, unmoving and compliant.

Brock was gasping for breath. Sam sidestepped warily around Winter to go to his side, but it was even worse close up, and Sam couldn’t see how Brock was going to survive the damage done to his body.

Sam didn’t get a chance to ponder for too long because the doors behind them opened, and HYDRA soldiers geared to the teeth were blocking their only escape route. Sam stayed strong, not faltering beneath their guns and glaring back at them as he felt Brock’s life slipping away beneath his palms.

“Take them to Garret; I’m sure he wants to speak with them alive.” It was a man, probably some sort of higher up in HYDRA, Sam assumed. “As for the asset… Let it loose on Captain Rogers and then hose it down and return it to its room.”

From beneath Sam’s palm, Brock gave a gargled growl. His eyes were filled with blood, his face contorted with pain, but Sam could still see the anger in his expression. “He’s not… He’s not an _it_ … You fuckin’ pieces o’ shit…”

There was laughter from the soldiers, a mocking about them. “Oh, really? It’s a _weapon_.”

Brock’s broken hand curled into a fist against the bloodied cement. His eyes were narrowed, even in his condition, he still looked frightening as he stared down an entire army on his own. “His name… His name is _Winter_ , you bastards…”

“It doesn’t have a name; all it is is an _asset._ As its former handler, you should know that, Rumlow.”

“Oh, I know… A _lot_ more than _you_ fucks.” Brock huffed heavily in pain as he tried to get himself into a sitting position. Sam’s hands were around him, keeping him steady. His harsh pants were breathless as his eyes went to Winter, still kneeling obediently by the roller door. He licked his lips. “Wints… Wints… One last order from me, okay…? Okay…? Wints… Wints, _ubiystvo._ ”

Winter moved in the blink of an eye, as graceful and deadly as ever as he single-handedly took down the soldiers, so quickly, not a single round was fired off. He was left in a sea of blood, back on his knees and awaiting orders.

Sam took a chance, knowing it could either end well or disastrously. “Winter…?”

Winter’s head cocked upwards slightly. Good; a sign of recognition. “…”

“Winter, help me get him out of here,” Sam ordered as he gestured to Brock. “He’s going to die if we don’t get him help. Please… Help me carry him.”

If Winter recognised Sam as Sam, or thought of him as his new handler, Sam didn’t care; all that mattered was that Winter was back on his feet and by Brock’s side in an instant. Sam called out to Steve, telling him to meet them on the outside, and with that, he followed Winter through the base and to an exit, every passing second a matter of life or death for Brock.

***

Brock’s eyes opened slowly to the sound of beeping. He tried to groan, but there was something over his mouth, something he recognised from the field to be a respiration mask. He closed his eyes and groaned again, trying to feel his body, but not succeeding.

“You’re awake.”

Brock opened his eyes again and turned his head slowly to the side. He frowned at the sight of Sam, not knowing what to think if Winter and Steve weren’t with him – come to think of it, the lead-up to how he got here was blurry.

“Steve’s taking care of Barnes.” Sam wasted no time in getting to the point, Brock had to give him credit. “Barnes… hasn’t been well… Steve’s taking care of him, so don’t worry; he’s got this.”

Brock closed his eyes again as drowsiness overwhelmed him; just how much painkillers did they have him on? He tried to let out a rumble of understanding, but he failed. He tried again, but the darkness reclaimed him, and he was back to nothing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for such a late update; there was so much happening in my personal life and I was bouncing around houses for a couple months which really made things difficult. But I'm moved into my own place now so I do hope my updates become regular again.

“He’s never going to be right, Cap. They’ve messed his brain up too much. These scans? His brain is _literally_ fried.”

Steve shook his head. Adamantly, he replied, “No, Tony. There’s got to be a way.”

The look that Tony Stark and Bruce Banner shared was not a confident one. There was hesitation in the both of them before Bruce cleared his throat and murmured, “Steve… We’re not saying he _can’t_ get better – he _can_ … But he… He’s probably never going to be the Bucky that you remember.”

“He _can,_ Bruce!” Steve cried. “I _know_ he can! I’m going to _help_ him get better!”

“I’m sure his personality can bounce back a little…” Bruce rubbed the back of his head nervously, “…but there’s _physical damage_ to his _brain,_ Steve…! You might get a _little_ of the old Bucky back… But he’s probably never going to be able to function one-hundred percent again. Didn’t you say that Rumlow has to handfeed him?”

Steve nodded. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“The damage those scans show should mean that the poor guy should be a fucking _vegetable_ ,” Tony pointed out. “The fact that he even knows he’s being spoken to is a miracle, Cap.”

Steve sighed. He took a seat by the back wall of Tony’s lab, almost obscuring himself from his friends’ sight with the bookshelves surrounding him. With all the grace of a man who had just lost all hope, he dropped his face into his hands. “I just…”

Bruce pulled a chair from the desk in the middle of the room and came to sit next to Steve. His hand pressed against Steve’s shoulder for a brief second before he pulled it away and murmured, “He’s doing okay, Steve; he’s been talking to the psychiatrist and he’s letting the doctors help him – I’m sure he’ll keep making progress.”

“He _is_ making progress, Bruce; he’s doing better since I’ve been taking care of him.” Steve sniffed at his own thoughts. “I’m teaching him to draw again – Rumlow hasn’t done anything with him except leave him in front of the TV all day…”

Bruce touched Steve’s hand. His expression was gentle as his eyes searched Steve’s. “Don’t you think _he_ needs help, too, Steve…? If he’s as deep in depression as you say he is, he… He probably doesn’t know _what_ to do _except_ watch TV…”

Steve sighed. “I don’t know, Bruce… He’s coming home from the hospital soon. Sam’s going to be bringing him home.”

“You aren’t gonna let that guy go back on his own, are you?” Tony’s tone hardened now. “That guy was HYDRA; he should be under lock and key so he doesn’t cause more trouble.”

“That’s the thing, Tony… What do I do if the world finds out about _Bucky_? They’ll take him away and who knows what’ll happen to him.”

“Rogers, the guy was out _killing people_ ,” Tony reminded, none-too-politely. The dislike in his expression was evidence enough of his feelings towards Bucky, and Steve couldn’t help but clench his hands defensively. “He probably _should_ be locked away, too.”

“No, Bucky just needs to remember who he is,” Steve growled. “Bucky would _never_ –“

“- Rogers.” Tony’s tone was firm now. He gestured to the medical records spread out on the desk they’d all been gathered around, like they were all the answers he’d ever need to provide. “I’ll bite. The guy was _not_ in complete control of his actions. That much is clear. There is brain damage and signs of torture. But he still _killed_ people, Rogers. I’m not saying to throw him in a jail cell and never let him back out. But who knows _how_ badly they’ve fucked with his brain. He should be institutionalised, Cap. He’s a danger – to everyone, and to _himself_.”

Steve winced at the last word. He shook his head, but all Tony could focus on was the way Steve grabbed at his own forearm and held it tightly, the same way he had that night not too long ago a blade had cut through it and almost severed muscle. “No, Tony, what Bucky did that night was _not_ him!”

Bruce had been looking between the two warily, trying to keep himself small enough to stay out of the argument. But now, with Tony’s nostrils flaring, and Steve’s eyes looking too shiny to be glistening naturally, he stepped in between the two and quietly murmured, “I think I’ve got to agree with Cap on this one, Tony… He didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt anyone until he had _strangers_ charging at him to take the knife away. He was…”

“He was only going to kill _himself,_ Tony…” Steve whispered, defeated. His eyes were heavy as he relived the memory, of seeing his best friend’s blank expression as he pressed a blade to his own throat… “He’s _not_ a danger to other people – and whatever problems he has, I’m going to _help_ him with them! He’s my _friend,_ and Bucky –“

“- He beat the absolute _shit_ out of Rumlow – broke pretty much every bone in his body and left him on life support for a _month_ – and you _still_ think he’s not dangerous? How do you know he won’t do the same to _you_?” Tony hissed.

“Because I can _match him_ if he tries,” Steve hissed back. “And it wasn’t his fault; HYDRA had him – he didn’t recognise Rumlow or Sam. I _know_ what I’m _doing,_ Stark.”

“You know how to get yourself _killed,_ ” Tony snapped back. “You turn Barnes and Rumlow over, or I’ll –“

Steve bristled in the blink of an eye, threatening enough to cut Tony off in a split second. There was a deadly aura about him as he snarled, “You’ll _what,_ Stark? You do anything that hurts Bucky, and you’ll be dealing with _me_. You’ll leave Rumlow alone, too; he’s mine to sort out.”

“Guys, let’s just take a minute to relax,” Bruce tried. “Look, just… Tony, I –“

“- Forget it; Cap clearly isn’t as righteous as he pretends to be if he’d rather harbour murderers.” Tony’s harsh tone and his stormy exit from the lab left no room for questions on his feelings towards the situation.

Bruce and Steve looked to each other. There was an exhaustion in Steve’s face now that truly showed his age, and Bruce couldn’t help but sympathise with him. When Steve spoke, his tone was defeated. “All these years I thought he was dead, and I blamed myself for it, Bruce… And now I know he _isn’t_ dead, and still, the whole world insists on taking him away from me…”

“Steve, we aren’t trying to hurt you,” Bruce comforted. “We just –“

“ -I _know_ Bucky isn’t a killer, Bruce! No matter _what_ anyone says! I’m the only one who _truly_ knows him, and this… This _Winter_ persona isn’t even far from the truth!” Steve’s eyes were full of tears. “Bucky doesn’t even know who _he_ is, but still… Still, he’s as Bucky as he could be given the… Given the circumstances…”

“Still as Bucky? What do you mean?”

“He’s clearly not the Bucky from the forties, Bruce… I’ve come to terms with that.” Steve offered a weak smile to get his point across. “But… In his own way, he kind of _is_. He’s still sweet, Bruce. Gentle… _Loving_. He used to be so affectionate with me, and maybe he isn’t affectionate with me _now,_ but he… I think he genuinely loves Rumlow, Bruce. I just… I don’t understand _why_.”

“Maybe it’s as simple as Bucky knows Rumlow loves him, and he’s learned to love Rumlow back,” Bruce suggested softly.

“So then why won’t he do the same for _me_? We were _boyfriends_!”

“I’m sure he still cares for you. We’ve seen the way he follows you around. He _listens_ to you, Steve – he wouldn’t even listen to _Tony_ when Tony told him to stop touching everything.”

Steve shook his head. “No, he’s only doing that because Rumlow isn’t here. He used to ignore me whenever Rumlow was around.”

Bruce shrugged. “Poor guy probably doesn’t know that he can split his attention for more than one person if he was always provided with a ‘handler’.”

Steve took that into consideration. It did make sense; even with Rumlow not around, Bucky seemed to struggle acknowledging Sam in Steve’s presence now. Maybe it was some sort of hierarchy thing – obey only the bigger, stronger alpha and ignore all the others that HYDRA had implemented into his brain.

Perhaps Steve should look into that…

“Thanks, Bruce… I need to get back to Bucky; Sam was looking after him, but they might need me.”

“You want a lift to the airport?”

“No, I’m okay. Thank you. Just make sure Tony leaves Bucky and Rumlow alone, please?”

Bruce agreed, letting Steve leave and get on with his journey back to Rumlow’s. At the airport, as he waited for his flight to arrive, Steve thumbed his phone thoughtfully in his hands.

Tony didn’t want Bucky. He _definitely_ wouldn’t tolerate _Rumlow_ – not for _anything._ Giving them a home at Avengers Tower probably wasn’t in the cards, but even if it was, it would likely do more harm than good.

Steve could bargain all he liked for Bucky and Rumlow’s safety. He could agree to keep them under his watch, confined to the tower for the rest of their days with security measures put in place to keep people safe. He could agree to essentially keep them prisoner – but at the end of the day, it would do nothing except drive them insane.

Bucky especially needed to keep his mind stimulated. Brock, who was so far in his depression anyway, needed the same thing, although it wasn’t glaringly obvious with the way he parked himself in front of the TV and waited to die.

Steve couldn’t do that to them. Not when everyone would be too busy on missions to give them any attention, and the most freedom they’d have at Avengers Tower was deciding what breakfast cereal they wanted in the mornings. Keeping them under lock and key would only cause their minds too much damage.

Sam could probably harbour them at his home Steve knew. There was room if they didn’t mind squeezing together on that small bed Sam had somehow managed to squish inside the even smaller spare bedroom.

But that still carried the same problems anyway – perhaps even more if anyone were to find out. Sam could be _jailed_.

But Steve couldn’t leave them in that tiny house in the middle of nowhere. They weren’t safe there. They weren’t _happy_ there. Bucky’s mind was quickly going downhill there, and if Rumlow had even noticed, Steve didn’t think he had the mental or emotional energy to do anything about it.

There weren’t many options Steve could think of that _didn’t_ end in some sort of disaster, but there were still options. He turned his phone up to unlock it and think of how to start his message.

In the end, he went with a simple, _I never did get to sign your card collection._

With that, Steve stood up and waited in line to board.


	15. Chapter 15

Steve wished with everything he had that Winter would sleep through the nights, but no matter how hard Steve tried, or what he did to try and keep him from waking up, Winter still woke screaming for Brock every night and couldn’t go back to sleep.

Steve was exhausted, but he would never blame Winter; Winter had been through hell, and with what he had done to Brock…

Steve wasn’t surprised Winter had nightmares so often.

It was a cold, rainy, and _far_ too early morning that Steve would have loved to continue sleeping through that found him giving up on trying to get Winter back to sleep once again. They were out in the living room together, mugs of hot cocoa in hand as Steve showed Winter his sketchbook to distract him from the nightmares he’d been under. It was nice to see the way Winter interacted more these days, especially now as he ran his fingers over the pages with concentration filling his expression. 

Winter’s fingers stopped over a particular sketch. The sadness in his eyes was nothing compared to the way he looked at Steve and tapped roughly at the sketch with some sort of desperation to understand.

“What is it, Buck?” Steve asked gently, patiently.

Winter licked his lips nervously as he continued tapping. “…Is… Is…”

Steve looked down at the sketch again to try and understand. He looked back up to face Winter as he tried to swallow down his own emotions. He didn’t want to be taken back to nineteen-thirty-nine, back to the ginger cat a _much younger_ Bucky Barnes had found on the streets and promptly adopted as his own. He didn’t know why he’d drawn it – the way the cat had always curled up in Bucky’s lap and purred until it had fallen asleep. Perhaps it had just been a passing memory in Steve’s mind he had wanted to recapture.

“Is...” Winter was still trying to get his words out amongst frustrated sounds. “…Is Gingie, Steve…?”

Steve let out a hesitant nod. “Yes… You remember Gingie, Buck?”

Winter hummed thoughtfully for a few moments before he nodded. “Yes… Gingie… Gingie… Windowsill?”

“Yes, he liked to sleep on the windowsill,” Steve confirmed gently. He reached out to cup Winter’s chin and rub his thumb against the pale cheek. He smiled before he leant in and planted a soft kiss against soft, pale lips. He pulled away to whisper lovingly, “He slept with you on our bed at night.”

Winter hummed again, pondering those words. Slowly, he gave a firm nod. He shifted closer to Steve so that their sides were pressed together, and with all the tenderness he was capable of, he ghosted his fingers along Steve’s lips as he whispered, “Small…”

“Yeah, I used to be small,” Steve confirmed. He wrapped one arm around Winter’s shoulders and held him close as he continued to flick through the sketchbook to show Winter. “I used to be small and sick and you would take care of me. Do you remember that?”

“Yes. I…” Winter’s words trailed off, having forgotten already what it was he wanted to say. He looked down, his face blank once more.

Steve wouldn’t have it. He took Winter by the chin and raised his head again, smiling at him before he kissed him again. When they broke apart, he rested their foreheads together and murmured, “Do you remember how much I love you, Buck?”

With only a second’s hesitation, Winter nodded. He was frowning now, his eyes sad as he said, “But Brock loves me now.”

“You can be loved by more than one person,” Steve whispered. “ _I_ love you, Buck… I love you, but… If you love Rumlow now, then I…”

Winter frowned. He looked away for a few moments, licking his lips nervously. When he responded, it was with a hesitant whisper. “I don’t… know what to do… I’m not allowed… to _want_ things…. Or choose things…”

Steve moved closer. He wrapped one arm around Winter’s shoulders and held him close. “Bucky... Bucky, I -“

Winter moved like the deadly assassin he had been trained to be. Steve’s arm had been thrown from his body, and if Steve hadn’t moved out of the way so fast, there was potential that he may have been thrown through the wall as well.

Winter’s eyes were filled with tears as he screamed out his panicked response. “No! Stop it! You’re trying to confuse me and punish me like everyone else did! I’m not allowed to choose for myself or want things! I _hate_ you!”

Steve was hurt. Naturally, his heart broke. But Steve also understood, so he was calm as he murmured, “Nobody is trying to confuse you, Buck... I promise you that. I would never want to do anything to hurt you – not _ever_.”

Winter’s face was wet with tears as he reached up and wrapped chunks of his hair around his hands and _pulled_. He shrugged Steve away when Steve reached out to stop him, shying away like he truly thought that Steve was going to harm him. His screams were near-incomprehensible, and Steve was sure that the only word he could make out accurately was Rumlow’s name – was Winter so far gone that the only person he truly trusted was an ex- _Hydra_ agent…?

Steve felt his own tears well at the thought.

With his hands kept firmly by his sides, Steve tried his best to soothe Winter with his voice. It was like taming a ferocious animal, but eventually, Winter calmed enough for Steve to touch him again, even if his tears were still falling.

Steve cupped Winter’s face and stared into his eyes firmly. His tone was hard, but not aggressive, but still, Winter melted in the familiar contact, even if he didn’t quite remember what was so familiar about it. “Whoever told you you’re not allowed choices or to want things was _wrong,_ Bucky. They were so _wrong,_ and if I _ever_ heard someone tell you that you weren’t allowed to do either of those things, I would _kill_ them, Bucky… You are _allowed,_ Buck. _You are allowed_.”

Winter pulled away with a soft hiccup. He looked to his lap for a few moments before he turned his attention to the front door, as if he were waiting for something important. Steve suspected he was waiting for Rumlow to come home. “He’ll be back soon, Buck. Sam’s gone and gotten him.”

A wary excitement crossed Winter’s face now. Steve couldn’t help but wince at just how childlike he was when he whispered, “Stevie is coming home…?”

Steve didn’t know how to respond, so when he just patted Winter’s hair and gave a grim shake of the head, he wasn’t surprised when Winter fell straight back into hysterics.

***

When Winter saw Brock walk through the front door, Winter was up and off the couch in the blink of an eye. Steve smiled at first, but as he watched Brock push Winter away from him and scowl distastefully, his eyes narrowed.

Winter turned from Brock to look at Steve with a tearful, pleading look on his face. His attention went back to Brock when he heard Brock walking past him, and with a whimper, he reached out to grab Brock’s wrist.

Despite all the bandages and plaster casts still adorning his body, Brock whirled around with an anger that made even Steve flinch. His eyes were wild, and he was almost spitting his words out. “Don’t fuckin’ _touch me,_ Winter! Piss off!”

Steve had a sneaking suspicion that, despite everything, Winter had never looked this devastated before. Sam, who had just walked in behind Brock, gave a confused look to Steve at the way Winter’s soft cries seemed to drown the world out.

Steve watched Brock limp away on a pair of crutches before he called Sam’s name and said, “Look after Bucky for me, Sam; I’m going to talk to Rumlow for a minute.”

Steve followed Brock all the way to the bedroom in silence, neither of them saying a word until Brock finally spun around in the doorway to fix Steve with a dirty look of his own. “ _What_.”

“What happened back there?” Steve nodded his head to the living area, where Winter’s cries were still audible. “Surely you didn’t go through what you did to get him back, just to treat him like crap now…”

Brock sneered. He was silent for all of three seconds before he growled, low and clear, “Cap… Just do me one favour, yeah? Keep him the hell out of my room.”

With that, the bedroom door was shut, and Steve was left with half a mind to break it down and demand Rumlow apologise to Bucky.

But Steve didn’t. He went back into the living room to sit on the couch with Sam and Winter, his arms wrapped protectively around his best friend as Sam went through every therapeutic method he knew of to try and reassure Winter that he had done nothing wrong and everything would be okay.

But even though Winter eventually did stop crying, Steve knew he didn’t believe them, no matter how many times they told him that he wasn’t in trouble and Brock didn’t hate him.

Honestly, Steve wasn’t so sure he believed his own words himself. 

***

“Bucky doesn’t understand why he isn’t allowed in.” Steve sighed at the disgruntled grunt he received in response. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but really, was Brock going to insist on making this more difficult than it had to be? “He thinks he’s in trouble.”

From within the bundle of blankets lumped on top of the mattress, Brock grunted again. There was a slight movement from within the blankets before Brock’s cold voice filled the room. “Good. As he should be.”

Steve growled softly. His hands clenched, but he bit his tongue on what he really wanted to say in order to force out as kindly as he could, “You’re bitter. You’re taking it out on Bucky. He didn’t know what he was doing back there – you of all people should know that that’s what he does when HYDRA is controlling him…”

Brock snorted. He pulled his blankets down further to fix Steve with a firm, unyielding stare. “Oh, I know. But he was never taught to _play_ with his food, Rogers…”

Steve tried so hard to keep his patience, but it wasn’t easy. He chewed at the inside of his cheek as he considered his reply. “You’re saying you’d have rather him make it quick and clean?”

Brock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sayin’ I’d rather not be laying here in fuckin’ pain with one leg in a plaster cast and the other barely holding my weight when I walk on it. He’s fucked both my arms and the nurse told me I’m lucky to not be _paralysed_ after what he did to my spine, so fuckin’ _forgive me, Cap,_ if I happen to be a little _pissed_ with your bestie.”

Steve wasn’t intimidated by the snarls or the spit that accompanied every word Brock hissed. Instead, he glared back and growled, “Nobody asked you to do what you did, Rumlow. _You_ were the one who kept getting in his way when you _know_ you can’t match him. You should have waited for me to –“

“- For _what,_ Cap?! To finally show up and save the day?!” Brock snapped. “To be the big fuckin’ hero everyone _loves_? Well let me tell ya somethin’, _cunt_ ; it was _me_ who stopped him, and it was me who was _there_ to stop him.”

“I couldn’t get in – I couldn’t –“

“- No. Shut up, Cap, because Wints was fuckin’ crazy, and _you. Weren’t. There.”_ Brock’s eyes reflected his rage, but there was something beneath it that Steve was familiar with. As strange as it seemed, Steve was sure that what he was seeing was a feeling of betrayal.

Steve allowed himself to soften now. As calmly as he could, he murmured, “Sam couldn’t get the doors open; I’m sorry, Rumlow… I’m sorry. You two should never have been left alone with him in that state.”

“Don’t fuckin’ be sorry, asshole, just shut up and leave me alone,” Brock rasped. His expression was exhausted now, drained and defeated, but above all, _hurt_. “Keep him out of here and don’t let him in; I don’t wanna see him…”

Steve never gave up easily, and he wasn’t about to start now. He moved closer to the bed until he could sit on the very edge, doing his best to pay no heed to the way Brock flinched and backed away. Gently, he whispered, “Bucky knows he’s hurt you, Rumlow… He knows it, and it hurts him so much… I don’t understand it. What it is exactly between you both…”

“I love him ‘cause I just _do,_ ” Brock grumbled. “I just _do_.”

“But _why?_ Because from where I stand, it looks so much like Bucky is just being taken advantage of – he can’t _consent,_ Rumlow.”

“I’m not takin’ advantage of _no one_ – I _know_ he’s fragile at the moment so I don’t _do_ shit with him that I think is takin’ advantage of him… I just… I don’t fuckin’ know, Cap, but seein’ all the shit done to him over the years? It was… _comfortin’_ takin’ care of him, and maybe he never _had_ a personality to fall in love with, but… I dunno, Cap, there was just… Just somethin’… About the way he was so affectionate to me… He didn’t _need_ to be crackin’ jokes or laughing all the time ‘cause I liked him just the way he was, Cap. I’m not ashamed anymore to admit that I love him, even if I don’t have an explanation about _why._ But when I’m with him it’s like there’s not a storm ragin’ inside that’s rippin’ me to shreds. I’m _calm_ with him. It’s as simple as that.”

“He’s damaged.”

“And so am I, Cap. I _get him_. Maybe on levels you could never understand.” Brock sighed. He shook his head. “Whatever you have against me, Cap… Just trust that I never was, and never will be, out to get Winter. He almost killed me. Just let it sink in that there’s not many people I’d have gone after to get back the way I did for Winter, Cap…”

As much as Steve wanted to reply, he couldn’t come up with the words. He didn’t get much time to think on it either, because the creaking of the bedroom door opening dragged both of their attention to the fact that Winter was now standing in the doorway with his head bowed, looking very much like a scolded dog. Steve opened his mouth to say something, to tell Winter to go wait for him on the sofa and he would be back out with him shortly. But he couldn’t. He could only watch the way Winter dropped down to his hands and knees and _crawled_ all the way to the bed, like he was trying to make himself small enough that nobody would notice him.

The way Winter stopped to kneel by the bed with his head still bowed, quivering and _waiting_ for Brock’s attention broke Steve.

“Bucky…” Steve choked on a sob as he moved to kneel next to Winter and put his hand on his shoulder. “G-go wa-ait on the sofa… I won’t be long…”

Winter didn’t move. He didn’t even acknowledge Steve. But he acknowledged the rifle-calloused, scarred hand donning stitches and wound dressings that dropped into his messy hair and stroked. He looked up now, looking at Brock’s form still splayed out beneath the blankets. He winced at the blank expression staring back at him and dropped his head again.

“Hey.” Brock’s voice was gruff, but his hand remained gentle as it played with the long tufts of brown that felt too oily to have been cleaned recently. Brock waited until Winter was looking at him again before he nodded his head to the mattress, raised the blankets, and murmured, “Wanna get up…?”

Winter hesitated, but he found himself standing soon enough. He raised one leg, his knee resting lightly, _cautiously,_ against the mattress. Brock recognised the blank expression Winter also donned; Winter was waiting for permission to carry out his actions. A step back in the wrong direction, but nothing that couldn’t be corrected with time.

“Yeah, it’s okay.” Brock moved over a little to give Winter more room. “C’mon. It’s okay.”

Winter finally obeyed. He crawled onto the mattress to lay with Brock, his body resting almost on top of Brock’s as he laid with his face buried amongst Brock’s neck and shoulder. He leaned into the hands that came up to caress his back, mumbling something inaudible.

Brock looked over Winter’s shoulder to make eye contact with Steve. Firmly, he gave the order. “Leave us.”

Steve had no objections; not when his phone started vibrating from within his jeans pocket with an incoming call. He excused himself politely, leaving the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

From where he sat in the living room, on the sofa with Sam next to him, despite the call he was taking, he still could hear one or both of them in the bedroom, crying.


	16. Chapter 16

“Steve…”

Steve looked over his shoulder at Winter’s whimper. He wasn’t sure what had gotten him worked up; he had seemed just fine as he trailed Steve through the grocery store, and nothing had really happened to set him off, either; no one had approached them, and the store had remained calm during their stay. With as much tenderness as he was capable of to keep Winter comfortable, he murmured, “What’s wrong, Buck?” 

Winter whimpered again. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, as if he couldn’t find the words he wanted to say. His pleading eyes spoke loudly - the only thing they  _ didn’t  _ convey was  _ why  _ Winter looked like a cornered animal. 

Steve looked around to try and find the source of Winter’s discomfort. The grocery shop was quiet for such an early morning, the handful of workers behind the counters or in the back of the store. There were customers, but so far and few between, Steve was sure the last customer he’d seen five minutes ago had already left with their purchases. 

It was only natural for Steve to assume the cause of Winter’s discomfort was due to other people being around him - after everything he had been through, Steve didn’t think Winter would never  _ not  _ feel anxiety around others. In fact, Steve was so sure that was the reason for his behaviour, he disregarded any other possibility for Winter’s panicked expression.

That was why he just couldn’t work out why Winter was as bothered as he was. 

“Steve…” There was that whimper again, full of fear and uncertainty and - wait a minute, were Winter’s teeth chattering? 

Steve closed the distance between them so he could reach out and slowly peel back the long sleeve of Winter’s shirt. Sure enough, the flesh hidden beneath was prickled from goosebumps. It angered Steve to realise it was a cruel mockery of the Winter Soldier title, and all he wanted in that moment was to get his hands on everybody who had dared ever harm his Bucky. 

Steve looked back at Winter, forcing himself to bridle his emotions and focus on the situation at hand. It did make more sense now, considering they had just stepped into the frozen items aisle. “Are you cold, Buck?” 

Winter gave no other response to the question other than saying, “Brock promised I don’t have to go back…” 

“Go back where?” Steve murmured gently.

Winter’s eyebrows furrowed as he tried to find the right words. “To the… To the… cold… place…” 

“Cryofreeze…” Steve murmured under his breath. He shook his head before he took hold of Winter’s flesh hand and whispered, “You’re not going back.” 

Winter licked his lips as his eyes darted from side to side nervously. “Steve… Steve…”

“What are you feeling? What do you want, Buck?” Winter’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, but if he knew the words he wanted to say, he still shook his head and looked down. 

Putting together all the evidence, Steve did the first thing that came to mind; with a gentle tug to Winter’s hand, he pulled him from the aisle and to the front of the store so they could pay for what they had. “It’s okay, Buck; we can go home now.” 

Winter planted his heels firmly into the ground as he shook his head again. He grit his teeth as if there was some great annoyance to him now, and when he spoke, it was in a strained, tense tone. “Steve… Steve… No…” 

“You don’t want to go home?” Steve wasn’t sure what had sparked this; Winter conveying his wishes for once  _ and  _ disobeying what could have been perceived as an order. On one hand it was probably a good thing for him to be doing - but on the other, it potentially meant he was in a very bad spot mentally. 

Winter growled, low and deep in his chest as he moved closer to lean into Steve’s front. He pressed his body in, so firmly, Steve almost stumbled backwards under the pressure. He didn’t calm; not until Steve’s arms wrapped around him to hold him tightly, and a soft hum sounded from under Steve’s breath. 

“Bucky?” Steve brushed long strands of hair from Winter’s face so he could gaze into those stormy eyes that held only trust for him now. “You doing okay?” 

Winter nodded. He clung tighter to Steve, a soft noise of distress leaving him. He leant into the fingers that stroked through his hair, his eyes closing and his breath steadying. “Fine…” 

Steve tangled Winter’s long locks around his fingers and gave a gentle smile. He leaned forward and planted a kiss on Winter’s forehead before he pulled away and murmured, “We don’t have to go home if you don’t want to, Buck. We can just go somewhere nice and quiet where it’s only us.”

Winter nodded once more. Steve felt the body in his arms relax, and he wondered if all Winter had wanted was to be with him. 

It didn’t take long for Steve to pay for the groceries - they hadn’t been there long enough to get a lot - and once he had loaded the bags and Winter into the car, he drove them around town, searching for somewhere nice to stop. 

Steve found the perfect place in the form of a small overlook above a lush, secluded river. He led the way to the edge of the small cliff that towered above the river, settling them amongst the grass and draping Winter’s jacket around his shoulders to fight away any chill that could still be lingering in Winter’s body. 

Steve kissed Winter’s temple before he wrapped his arm around his shoulders and held him against him. He brushed his lips over Winter’s ear, debating whether or not to take the lobe and nibble at it the way they once did all those decades ago. In the end, he settled for closing his eyes and resting his nose in Winter’s hair. 

Winter was the one to initiate the kiss; a quick, shy and almost uncertain peck of his lips against Steve’s before he pulled back and looked away. His cheeks were reddened, seemingly embarrassed by his own actions.

Steve chuckled and pulled Winter in for a proper kiss. Their tongues danced together, eyes closed and breathing steady. Winter didn’t stay in place for long, though; he pulled away and looked to his lap, the fingers of both his flesh and metal hands picking nervously at the fabric of his pants. 

“Hey, Buck…?” Steve pulled Winter close again, dropping his head to rest against the metal plating that now made up what was left of Winter’s shoulder. “...Would you come with me if I had to leave…?” 

Winter’s body became tense. His eyes darted as he tried to find the right words. His throat bobbed with an anxious swallow before he forced out, “With Brock.” 

“What if it were just the two of us? You know… Like how we used to be,” Steve explained gently. 

Winter shook his head and repeated himself more adamantly. “With Brock.” 

“The three of us…? Together?” Steve frowned when Winter nodded. He raised his hand to cup Winter’s chin. “Bucky… Darling, it doesn’t work that way…” 

Winter frowned as well. “Steve… Steve, with Brock…?” 

“We don’t like each other, Buck; it would never work,” Steve explained. 

Winter let out a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes as he leant more firmly against Steve, letting out a tired, “But Steve… Love Brock…”

“I know you do…” Steve planted a kiss on the top of Winter’s head. “I know you love him, Buck - I’m just saying… if ever there came a time where I had to leave you… I want you to be absolutely sure in who you choose - whether it be me or Rumlow, I just want you to be happy, Buck.” 

Winter turned his head to look up at Steve’s face. Steve saw fear in his expression, and when Winter whimpered, Steve wasn’t surprised to hear it as well. “Steve leaving Winter…?” 

Steve chewed at his lip as he gave careful consideration to his reply; Winter’s broken English was getting worse, and he was coming to learn that the worse Winter’s English got, the more he was reverting back to the Winter Soldier. “...It… depends on who you decide you want to go with… You have that choice, Buck - to decide your  _ own  _ future. I can’t always stay here with you; I just… I just hope I’ve done the right thing...” 

A single tear of anger and frustration rolled down Winter’s cheek. For the longest time, he stared out over the river in silence. When he spoke, his tone was oddly stoic - perhaps sounding more himself than he had in  _ decades,  _ Steve hated to think. “Why is the only choice I get to make one that hurts me no matter what I choose…?” 

“Because sometimes there  _ are  _ no easy choices in life, Buck - but we still have to choose,” Steve whispered. 

Winter’s stoic expression never left, not until Steve had gotten him back into the car and taken him home. When they stepped through the doorway, Winter’s expression turned to exhausted, and Steve wasn’t surprised when he disappeared further into the house to go and sleep for a few hours.

***

Winter returned to Steve’s side after what Steve had counted to be almost six hours of sleep. Whether or not that sleep had occurred in the bedroom, Steve didn’t know; he hadn’t heard the bedroom door open or close once since they’d been back home, though he also hadn’t seen Winter anywhere in the house, too. 

But that didn’t seem to matter, because while Steve and Sam were in the kitchen together preparing dinner, Winter emerged from wherever he’d been and swiftly tugged Steve into the living room with him, leaving Sam to watch with a curious expression as they disappeared from the kitchen.

As he was being lowered forcibly onto the sofa by Winter’s metal hand on his shoulder, Steve cautiously asked, “Have you been to see Rumlow today, Buck?”

Winter shook his head. “Sleeping. Will see later.” 

Steve was almost confused by what Winter wanted from him, but he quickly understood what was expected of him when Winter grabbed his hand and moved it to the bulge in his pants. “O-oh…” 

Winter looked at Steve with a mixture of fear, confusion, and innocence. Steve didn’t know just how much Winter retained of his original sex drive, but what he did know was that the last time things had gotten sexual between them, it had ended terribly. 

“Steve…” But the anxious way Winter pleaded Steve’s name only had him moving in closer, not away. “Help…?” 

Steve never had been able to say no to his Bucky Barnes, and Winter was no different; with a careful look to the kitchen entry to make sure Sam wasn’t about to emerge on them any time soon, he pulled his hand from Winter’s and worked hard on unfastening the denim. 

“Buck, you’re sure about this?” Steve didn’t want a repeat of last time, and if it meant having to stop things here, so be it; he wasn’t going to hurt Winter any more than he already had. 

“Brock says okay,” Winter murmured. His eyes were empty as he stared down at Steve, and it was enough for whatever arousal Steve had built up to flag. “Need help.” 

Steve stopped undoing the denim at those words. Carefully, to avoid upsetting Winter if he could, he suggested, “Maybe you should take care of this in the bathroom, Buck - I don’t think this is really what you want…” 

Winter shook his head. “Want this…” 

“I don’t think you do,” Steve murmured. 

“No… Dreamed of this.” Winter pushed his hips forward again, forcing them towards Steve. “Want this.” 

Maybe it was selfish on Steve’s behalf, but if Winter said this was what he wanted, this was what he was getting, Rumlow or anything else be damned. He moved forward again, taking care to avoid looking at Winter’s face so he didn’t have to see those emotionless eyes. He pulled Winter’s erection from the confines of his pants and held him in hand, lovingly taking in all the changes to Winter’s anatomy since the super soldier serum. 

“You used to be smaller,” Steve whispered as he wrapped his fingers properly around the erection and stroked. “You were still big, but not this big. And you were thinner, too. I guess you were just proportionate - that’s what you always told me when I’d get embarrassed with you.” 

If Winter recalled what Steve was talking about, he didn’t show it. Instead, he continued staring at Steve with dead eyes, showing no sign that he was even enjoying what Steve was doing with his hand.

But Steve wasn’t going to give up so easily - not until he could get at least one moan out of Winter before he came. He pulled his hand away briefly so he could spit into his palm and resume his ministrations, but no matter how well he twisted his wrist, Winter didn’t show an ounce of enjoyment once. 

Steve heeded another look to the kitchen before he grabbed Winter by the waist and pulled their bodies closer. He moved the fingers of his free hand into his mouth and sucked, knowing how terrible a lube saliva made, but knowing the only other option was in the bedroom with Rumlow - and  _ that  _ was a conversation Steve  _ never  _ wanted. 

Steve slid his hand behind Winter and pushed the first finger inside of him. It was such an awkward angle, and surely uncomfortable for them both, but if Steve could open him up enough, it might still get him off eventually. 

“Is this okay?” Steve asked, working his index finger in and out of Winter quickly, knowing not to waste time with Sam so close by. He was let down by Winter’s lack of response, but Winter hadn’t otherwise pushed him away or given him much sign - apart from the blank expression, of course - that this was unwelcome, so he kept going. 

Winter growled when the third finger inevitably entered him. Steve froze, wondering if he’d pushed Winter too far again. Winter baring his teeth for a split second before he lunged forward and sunk his teeth into the underside of Steve’s jaw, hard enough to draw blood, was pretty close to an answer - but apparently not the answer that Steve would have expected from Winter after he demanded him to resume immediately after. 

That was indeed a new side of Winter that Bucky Barnes had never possessed in the bedroom; Bucky Barnes had never been an aggressive lover - Steve, tiny, sickly little  _ Stevie  _ had been the more aggressive one between them in the bedroom - but then again, this  _ was  _ Winter, and he’d been raped and abused more times than Steve would ever really know. 

The more Steve thought about it, the more it made sense to him that Winter probably  _ was  _ going to have aggressive tendencies during sexual intimacy now, whether he meant to be aggressive or not - decades of rape and torture surely couldn’t fade from mind so simply. 

Winter didn’t come. He’d just flagged in Steve’s palm in the blink of an eye, soft and shrinking and Winter growling above him as if  _ Steve  _ had done something to ruin his arousal. But Steve knew it hadn’t been him; Winter couldn’t maintain an erection because somewhere in the last seventy years, he’d learned to associate arousal with pain. 

Steve couldn’t blame him for going soft; he probably would have, too.

“Buck, I -” Steve flinched at the loud coughing audible from the bedroom. He should have given consideration to Winter and Rumlow’s relationship and kept his hands to himself, really - but it was just hard to remember that there was  _ any  _ sort of relationship between them with how dysfunctional it all seemed to be. He shook his head. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that to you…”

Winter’s face twisted aggressively as he eyed Steve off, but he otherwise said or did nothing except throw himself down onto the sofa, denim still unzipped and his length hanging out. He rolled onto his side and nuzzled into the back of the sofa, like a pouting child that wasn’t getting its own way. 

Steve couldn’t help but laugh with relief at the sight; now  _ here  _ was the James Buchanan Barnes he had once known so well. 

***

Dinner was a quiet affair. Winter was still sulking, Brock had emerged from the bedroom for once to eat with them, and Sam and Steve were having a small conversation between themselves about whether or not cooking spaghetti with wine made it better or worse.

“I mean, sure, there is  _ some  _ flavour is there, but is it really enough to justify putting the wine in?” Steve swirled his spaghetti strands around his fork to eat before he continued. “I barely notice a difference in flavour with the wine in it.” 

“That’s because you got no taste in good food,” Sam countered. Half his meal was already devoured, leaving everyone else in the dust with bowls that were still almost full. “Comin’ from the forties, I don’t expect you to know good food when you taste it, Cap.” 

Steve tried to defend his opinion, but he stopped when Brock threw the packet of parmesan from the middle of the table at him. Brock rolled his eyes before muttering, “My nonna would slap you silly for talkin’ shit ‘bout her spaghetti.” 

“Bet she slapped you around a fair bit, hey, tough guy?” Sam teased. “That why you ran off and became a nazi?” 

Brock gave a wry grin. “No. But she slapped me just for breathin’. I was kinda glad when she died, actually.” 

The conversation was quickly steering into uncomfortable levels. Winter, who had refused to look up from his barely-touched meal of extra-softened pasta noodles for the entirety of dinnertime, continued glaring at his food, like it was the cause of all his misery. He heard someone call his name - probably Steve, going by his  _ other  _ name being used - but all that did was upset him even more. 

The only thing to be said after Winter swiped his bowl from the table and left it to shatter on the floor came from Sam, trying to make light of the situation. “Guess wine spaghetti was a  _ big  _ no-no in your time, Cap.” 

Steve sighed, his eyes still fixed on the door Winter had just stormed out of. “He’s still pouting, apparently. Though his temper tantrums are worse than I remember.” 

“Yeah, well, massive fuckin’ boner in his pants doesn’t help.” Brock ignored the uneasy look Steve gave him and kept his attention on his spaghetti. 

“How big?” Sam regretted the words the instant he spoke them; he didn’t want to know the answer, and he didn’t even know  _ why  _ he’d asked. 

Brock’s eyes locked onto Sam’s challengingly. “Bigger than yours, pin prick.” 

“Least I’m not sporting a damn tic tac in my pants,” Sam shot back.

“Guys!” Steve didn’t want to get caught in the middle of two men arguing over whose was bigger, but he also didn’t want to have to deal with Winter and his seeming sexual frustrations; he’d done enough of that back before the war. 

As much as it should be a relief that a distraction came in the form of Winter running back into the dining room, that relief quickly vanished when Winter’s solid body weight slammed into the three of them, knocking them from their chairs and onto the ground. 

“What the -!” Whatever cry of surprise had been on Sam’s tongue was silenced by Winter’s flesh hand slapping over his mouth with so much force, he was sure he could feel his teeth shattering. 

Winter gave no verbal response to the confused men trying to push his crushing weight from on top of their own bodies; he only reached up on top of the table and retrieved his unused fork from it. 

Winter removed his hand from Sam’s mouth so he could run the tips of the fork over his index finger, as if testing how sharp it was. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked to Steve. “He gonna fork someone to death or what?” 

“Don’t be surprised if he does,” Brock grunted out as he tried to push himself into a sitting position with his still-injured arms. “Seen the fucker murder a guy with a spoon before…” 

“Hope he forks you to death first so Cap and I can make a run for it,” Sam muttered.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth before I break both your knees and leave you here for him,” Brock snarled. “I’ll fuckin’ -” 

Brock’s words were muffled by Winter’s hand over his mouth, too, but his glare stayed fixed on Sam. Steve, who wasn’t interested in the childish bickering, kept calm. “What is it, Buc -” 

Winter wasn’t gentle at all as he pulled his hand from Brock’s mouth and slapped it over Steve’s next. There was pure annoyance on his face now as his eyebrows furrowed and he shushed them all like they were misbehaving children. He threw the fork onto the ground so he could smack the metal hand over Brock’s mouth, ignoring the whimper Brock made as his lips split from the force. With both hands now occupied, he turned himself around and forced Sam onto the ground so he could drop his knee against Sam’s mouth, not realising he’d kneed hard enough to draw blood. 

“Shut up,” Winter growled, low and deep from his chest. His eyes were trained on the window across from them, tracking something moving around outside. Steve peeled his own ears to listen in, and sure enough, there was movement outside - several people from the sounds of things. 

Steve flinched as he realised the situation. He tried to speak, but his words were too muffled against Winter’s hand. He reached out to pull the flesh hand from his face, but all it accomplished was Winter whirling on him with the metal arm and elbowing him hard in the chest.

Steve didn’t know what the aggression was about lately, but he didn’t have time to think about it for long, because Winter was crouching his body over the three of them protectively, growling deep within his chest. 

“Hey, Buck, wait and let’s just -” 

Winter growled something in Russian. Steve didn’t catch what it was he’d said, but Brock must have understood because he reached out to hold Winter’s flesh shoulder and murmur back in Russian. Winter nodded stiffly, but his body didn’t relax any. 

“What’d he say?” Steve whispered, wary of getting the shit beaten out of him if he kept speaking. 

Brock hesitated to reply. When he did, his tone was cautious. “He’s back in Winter Soldier mode; he said he’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt us.” 

“And what’d  _ you  _ say to him?” Sam demanded. 

Brock narrowed his eyes at Sam, his nose crinkling in annoyance. “I told him to protect you two assholes; that okay with you?” 

Steve left them both to bicker at each other some more so he could grab Winter’s hair and try to tug his attention onto himself. “Bucky, you’ve got to calm down; I -” 

Winter was gone in the blink of an eye, glass shattering in his wake as he launched himself through the window and towards the intruders. Steve chased after him, telling him to stop, but screams that weren’t Winter’s echoed loudly through the cold night air, and Steve realised that Winter wasn’t going to listen to anything he said right now. 

Brock and Sam followed, at a much slower rate. The gun shots that soon accompanied their appearances told Steve that at least one of them had detoured for a weapon before following them out. 

Steve growled loudly and ran at Brock. He snatched the gun from Brock’s grip and put the safety back on. “Tell him to stop, Rumlow.” 

“What the fuck!” Brock tried to snatch the gun back, but he should have known better than to think that he stood a chance against Steve of all people. “Give it back! Wints is out alone!” 

“Tell him to stop,” Steve demanded again. “He needs to stop.” 

“No, he fuckin’ doesn’t; we’d all probably be dead already if it wasn’t for him!” 

“That’s  _ SHIELD,  _ Rumlow!” Steve snapped. “Tell Bucky to stand down, or you’ve blown the only chance you  _ have _ .” 

“Tch…” Brock’s expression was foul as he regarded Steve with cold eyes. “Should let them die if they’re SHIELD trash...” 

Steve opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped when Brock called out to Winter, giving him orders in Russian. Steve almost didn’t trust him to not be egging Winter on - but as if to prove Steve wrong once again, Winter froze in the middle of the road and bowed his head in submission, his body language as harmless as a newborn kitten.

Steve tentatively handed the gun back to Brock, just to see what he did with it. Brock sneered at him as he took the weapon. “The fuck is this for? You told me  _ not  _ to kill them!” 

From where Winter stayed standing, a good distance from the people he trusted, but still close enough to reach out and break the necks of the four intruders, he growled when he felt someone ruffle his hair in a tentative manner. He fell silent when Brock called out to him to play nice, but he continued glaring down at the asphalt, the corners of his eyes crinkled grumpily as his hair was ruffled once more. 

Brock turned back to Steve, cold and angry as he spat, “We had a fuckin’ deal, Rogers! You just want Winter to yourself, you fuckin’ cunt! Think you can just tip off SHIELD to everybody who’s just tryin’ to live their fuckin’ life?! We had a  _ deal!” _

“The deal still stands,” Steve replied firmly. “I didn’t report anyone, Rumlow. That’s not what they’re here for.” 

“Fuckin’ lyin’ prick!” Brock snapped. He waved the gun around in the air before he pulled the safety back and pointed it at Steve. Steve made no attempt to move; just stared back calmly. “I should fuckin’  _ kill you! _ That’s what it is! You’re just jealous of me and Wints!”

“I’ve already told Bucky he has a choice,” Steve said softly. “I’ve already told him that this is where he takes control of his own life, and he decides for himself what’s best for him.”

“The fuck are you on about?!” Brock snarled. He looked behind Steve to see where the SHIELD agents were, glad to see them all still gathered together a good distance away, with Winter close enough if required for anything. 

Steve gestured behind him to SHIELD. “Rumlow... You and I both know that being in this house is doing neither of you any good. But that’s the thing. The world knows your faces now. There’s nowhere you can be that doesn’t put you in danger.”

“I‘m fuckin’  _ fine  _ here!”

“You’re not. And neither is Bucky,” Steve reminded. “But I can’t take you both back with me - I can’t be there often enough to look after you and keep you safe. Bucky needs help, Rumlow, and I  _ know  _ he can get that help if he goes with SHIELD. But that’s the thing. You have to go with him. You probably need it more so than him.”

“You callin’ me a  _ threat,  _ Rogers?!” Brock snarled. “I called him off!” 

Steve shook his head. Gently, he requested for Brock to call Winter over to them so he could speak with him. “This is where he makes his choice, Rumlow. Whatever he chooses… will be  _ his  _ choice. But when it comes to you, I really think you should be going with SHIELD, where they can  _ help  _ you, Rumlow.”

“The only ‘help’ they have for me is throwin’ me in an interrogation room and probably shootin’ me in the head ‘cause I can’t give them enough intel!” 

“They aren’t like that; they know the situation.” Steve reached out to squeeze Brock’s shoulder as Winter drew closer. He shook his head. “They would fight  _ for  _ you if you gave them the chance. You really didn’t think I would ask just  _ anyone  _ to look after Buck for me, did you?” 

“You’re throwing me to the wolves.” Brock reached out and grabbed at the front of Steve’s shirt. He pulled him in closer to hiss in his face. “After all the shit I did to  _ help  _ your fuckin’  _ Bucky  _ and look at what you’re doin’ to me.” 

Steve shook his head. He gently untangled Brock’s fingers from his clothing once Winter was standing beside them so he could murmur, “Bucky… That choice I was talking about? This is it.” 

Winter frowned now. He looked between Brock and Steve, eyes darting side to side as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. His reply was in Russian, his expression nonetheless confused when Brock told him to speak English. 

“I…” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed. His lips twitched, and despite the long moments he took to try and find the right words, he still repeated himself in Russian. 

Brock gave a heavy sigh before he turned a glare on Steve. “You’re upsettin’ him; he doesn’t get what’s goin’ on, Cap. He thinks you don’t want him anymore.” 

Steve took Winter by the shoulder with a firm grip. “Bucky… You get to decide here. If you want to stay with me or stay with Rumlow.” 

Winter’s eyes welled with tears. He moved closer to Steve, pressing himself against that strong chest he had once known better than his own. His whimper was loud, but his sobs were even louder. “No leave… No leave, Steve…” 

Steve tried to step away to give Winter room, but Winter followed, unwilling to let their bodies part. Steve took him by the midarms and gently pushed him back a bit. “Buck… I’ve  _ got  _ to leave - but you  _ can  _ come with me if you want to.” 

At Winter’s desperate nodding, Brock let out a yell. His own eyes were wet as his hand curled into a fist and collided with Steve’s arm. “Fuckin’ asshole! Takin’ him from me after  _ everythin’  _ I did for him! I fuckin’  _ hate  _ you, cunt!” 

Brock ceased the violence when he felt Winter’s fingers wrap gently around his wrists to stop him from hitting Steve. There was so much pain in his expression, Brock couldn’t possibly cause him more hurt. “Wints…?”

Tears rolled down Winter’s cheeks in rapid rivers as he shook his head and whimpered, “No hurt Steve, Brock… No hurt.” 

 Brock’s own tears fell now as he whispered, “He’s taking you from me, Wints…” 

“No.” Winter stepped away from Steve so he could instead wrap his arms around Brock and hold him in an almost bone-crushing embrace. “Never take from Brock. Never.” 

“You don’t want him to leave you but that’s  _ exactly  _ what he’s going to do if you don’t go with him,” Brock whispered. “He’s gonna make you choose between us and make you decide who you care about more, and he  _ knows  _ you’ll pick him, Wints… He  _ knows _ … That’s why he’s doin’ it…” 

“No,” Winter repeated, more adamantly than Brock could remember hearing him. “No leave Brock.” 

“Bucky.” Steve grabbed Winter’s wrist and squeezed to gather his attention again. “Bucky, I know this is sudden and confusing and  _ scary  _ for you… But I have to go back to DC - I have to do  _ Avengers  _ stuff, Buck. The time Sam and I have already spent here with you and Rumlow has been a lot, but we can’t keep doing this; there are other things we have to be doing, and we have to be back at our own homes…” 

“Abandoned… Like train again…” The way Winter’s voice quivered with broken English was testimony to his stress, Steve knew. “Like fall - Steve abandon.” 

“No no no,” Steve soothed. “Never abandon, Buck. Never abandon. I love you too much to do that, and I just got you back - I could  _ never  _ lose you again, Bucky…”

“So why abandon…?” Winter rubbed at his eyes with the back of his flesh hand. 

“ _ No,  _ Bucky,  _ never _ ,” Steve reiterated. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying his damned hardest to decide how he was to explain this properly. “Look... Nobody is being abandoned, Buck.  _ Nobody.  _ When I say you have to decide who you want to be with, it doesn’t mean the other person is going to disappear forever. If you go with Rumlow, I will still visit you, Buck. I will call you. I will find a way to contact you as much as I can, even if I have to buy a pidgeon and tie letters to its feet. And if you go with me, I’m certain Rumlow will do the exact same. Nobody is being abandoned, but unfortunately we can’t all stay together.” 

“Why no Brock and Winter stay with Steve...?” Bucky whispered, like a small child trying to understand its parents’ divorce. 

“Because...” Steve sighed. “...Because it’s too  _ hard _ to stay with me... But my friends here, they can take care of you both, Buck. They can look after you and make sure you’re both safe. They can  _ be with you both _ , but I can’t, Buck. I  _ can’t.  _ That’s why  _ I  _ had to make my own choice, whether or not I be selfish and take you with me... Or I do what’s best for you, even if it means I have to let someone else take care of you for me...” 

Winter continued crying, but Brock, who had been staying so quiet as he took in the situation, gruffed out, “Where do  _ I  _ fit into your little scheme, apart from bein’ Wints’ babysitter...?” 

Steve nodded his head at the group, still waiting so patiently behind them. “You go with them, and you get  _ better.”  _

Brock snorted. “Fuck you, Rogers. I’m  _ fine _ .” 

“You’re  _ not  _ fine, and I don’t care what you say; you go with SHIELD and make friends, or they take you to a nice jail cell. Maybe your buddy, Rollins, would be willing to share his cell.” 

“Why are you bein’ such a fuckin’ ass?!” Brock yelled. 

“Because you’re  _ not  _ fine!” Steve snapped back. “You’re  _ not  _ fine, and I don’t want you staying here  _ alone  _ in case you put a gun to your head! Whether or not Bucky goes with you,  _ you’re  _ going with them, if only so you don’t kill yourself one day!” 

“Who said I’m gonna kill myself?! I’ll kill  _ them,  _ the fuckin’ -“

“- Bucky!” Steve ignored the surprised look on Brock’s face. “Bucky is the one who said it, and I agree with him! You’re in a major depression, and I’ve seen for myself how lifeless you are! You really think I’m going to leave you on your own like it?!”

“You  _ hate  _ me! You don’t give a  _ fuck  _ if I -“

“- I  _ don’t  _ hate you, Rumlow, and that’s why I worked so hard to talk SHIELD into giving you a chance!” Steve’s eyes were wild with anger as he regarded Brock. “If I hated you, you’d  _ know it _ !”

“I’m  _ not  _ going with those fucks! You’ll have to drag me there ‘cause I’m  _ not going.”  _

“May I interject?”

Brock whirled around at the newcomer who had approached without him even noticing.  Spit flew from his mouth as he snarled, “No, you can fuck off!”

The entire group had approached, much to Brock’s dismay, and the man he had long-since known as Phil Coulson was standing before him, despite the fact that the man was meant to be dead. Great; now Brock was losing his mind, too; what fuckin’ else could go wrong with his life? 

“We could use someone of your expertise.” Coulson had seemed completely unperturbed by Brock’s reaction. It only made Brock hate him even more. “Stomping out HYDRA once and for all. Your knowledge can help us in doing so.”

“I don’t work for HYDRA  _ or  _ SHIELD! Piss off!” 

“You don’t,” Coulson agreed. “Not anymore. But you once did, and your loyalty to your men was what made you a great commanding officer.”

“Yeah, I was loyal to my  _ men _ . I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Brock snarled. 

“That’s a good quality to have. Doesn’t matter what side you’re on when your priority is getting your men home alive. I’d like a bit of that in my team.” 

Brock opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped at another voice speaking, one he recognised but had only heard a handful of times before. 

“You called Barnes off. You could have let him loose, but you stopped him.” Melinda May was one of the few people Brock wouldn’t want to tangle with, but for some reason he didn’t know, here and now, he bristled at her aggressively. 

“We had friends we’ve lost to HYDRA,” Coulson continued. “Good friends. Close friends. I don’t see you as a threat, Rumlow. You called Barnes off - loyalty to HYDRA would never do that. What was it you fought for in HYDRA?”

“The shit I believed in, whether or not it was right,” Brock growled. 

“Such as?”

Brock tilted his head at Winter. “Him.” 

“Then join us. We want the same thing.” 

“What’s that, fucker?”

“To stamp out something that hurt our loved ones. Maybe save our friends while we’re at it,” Coulson offered. 

“I’m not a good person,” Brock didn’t hesitate to respond. “I’m not. Don’t try and sway me like I am, ‘cause I’ve done things in the name of HYDRA that would make your skin crawl.” 

“Then do it if only to stop people coming after Barnes,” May offered. “You want him to be safe? Eliminate the threat.” 

“I don’t need to make myself a bitch to SHIELD just to put bullets in the heads of HYDRA cunts,” Brock snarled. 

“That’s a valid point. But look at it this way,” Coulson suggested, “you can’t change what you did as a HYDRA agent - but you’ve got a chance now to redeem yourself, and if you ever felt even just the tiniest bit of loyalty to SHIELD in the first place... Well, here’s your chance to be the agent you were supposed to be.” 

“What, you want me to start another STRIKE team and shit? Do it right this time over?” Brock mocked. 

“If you wanted, but I’m not sure even I could pull your second-in-command from his jail cell,” Coulson jested. 

“No, leave him in there; he was a cunt to Wints anyway...” Brock mumbled. He felt drained all of a sudden, as if he’d been running a marathon and didn’t even have the mental energy left. His eyelids drooped, and not even trying to hide it, he moaned out, “Can you fucks just leave me alone to sleep? I’m fuckin’ tired...”

“Goodnight, Rumlow,” Coulson offered kindly. “We’ll talk again in the morning.” 

Brock gave no response, nor did he acknowledge Winter as he chased after him, following him back into the house and to the bedroom. Brock ignored the way Winter clung to him in bed, more desperately than usual. 

But no matter how hard they tried, neither of them got any sleep that night.


	17. Chapter 17

 

Brock didn’t know what evil things he’d done in all of his past lives for him to be so fucking miserable, but he must have been some sort of fuckin’ spawn of Satan for his current life to be this fucked up. 

“I don’t give a fuck ‘bout any of it; leave it all behind - I don’t fuckin’ care…” Brock barely looked up from the plastic bag he was shoving clothing into, not sure if he wanted to admit to himself how glad he’d be to never have to set foot back into that dark, unwelcoming bedroom ever again in just a few moments. “Nothin’ important - leave it all.” 

Brock didn’t turn around when the footsteps wandered away from the bedroom door.  He focused his attention solely on pulling clothing from the dresser to bag carelessly, not wanting his attention to wander back to the fact that Winter had vanished from under his nose that morning - probably fucked off somewhere with Rogers, probably gone back to DC, Brock wouldn’t be surprised. 

After all, why would  _ anyone  _ want to stay with someone like  _ Brock  _ \- especially when Captain Fucking America was there to overshadow, just like he did every time he joined Brock’s STRIKE team on missions. 

There wasn’t any point in staying in that house if Winter had upped and left. Hell, if Winter was gone, Brock may as well finally get around to putting a bullet in his brain. He didn’t know why he was bothering to take his shit and go with Coulson; the more he thought about it, the more work it would be to put himself out of his misery in the end anyway.

So why was it that Brock found himself following Coulson back to their airbus and boarding with the bag of clothes still in hand anyway? 

“You’ll have your own room and bathroom. Everyone shares the kitchen, but you’re welcome to everything that’s in there.” Coulson was trying to be friendly; Brock could tell from the way he was smiling. Brock only gave a non-committal hum in response. “You’re welcome to the whole plane, really.” 

Brock sneered in annoyance. “Just hurry up and show me where my room is so you can fuck off.” 

If Coulson took any offence, he didn’t show it; he only did as he was told and led Brock to his bedroom, welcoming him once more onboard before leaving him to get comfortable. 

But Brock did not get comfortable. The longer he stood in the near-empty room, the more his eyes became wet, and he couldn’t help but take his handgun from its holster and take the safety off. There was no longer any reason to keep on living; Winter was gone, and he had taken every last shred of hope Brock had left. 

Brock put the gun in his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut tight. He fingered the trigger lightly, trying not to think about any initial pain he may feel before the end. 

The resolve to pull the trigger strengthened, and with a deep, shuddery breath of anxiety, Brock pulled his finger back. The gun roared, and there was indeed pain, but the pain came from the bullet that had grazed his cheek and temple, rather than where it had supposed to have entered. 

It became clear what had happened when Brock cracked his eyelids open and found Winter wrapped around him in a bone crushing hug, and Steve carefully prying the gun from his hand. 

Winter was shaking like nothing Brock had ever seen. The sobs he was choking on heaved his entire body in an almost seizure-like manner. His face was twisted in pure panic, eyes wide and mouth dropped open to suck in desperate gasps of air. The most concerning thing about it all was the fact that, despite how worked up Winter was, not a single sound escaped him aside from his harsh, loud,  _ choked  _ breaths. 

If Steve had anything to say about what had happened, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the blood coating the side of Brock’s face. He took some steps back, as if he needed to observe the situation rather than be directly involved. But Sam, who Brock hadn’t even seen come into the room, was donning a stoic face and a first aid kit in hand. 

The rest of the crew dribbled into the room as Sam cleaned Brock’s face and tended to the wounds. Drawn by the gunfire, Brock wasn’t surprised to see the alarm on their faces at the blood rhythmically falling to the ground, next to the bloodied tissues Sam had used to find the wounds beneath the blood staining his hair, cheek and neck. 

Winter never let Brock go, no matter who tried to gently pull him away; he only clung tighter, trembling like a naked man trapped in an avalanche, like he was sure that if he  _ did  _ let go, he  _ would  _ lose Brock.

Out of everyone crowding around the small room, Sam was the first to break the uncomfortable silence with an uneasy murmur. “If you tried doin’ that ‘cause you think Barnes’ is leavin’ you, ya should probably know that he hasn’t chosen anyone yet, and even if he  _ does  _ choose Steve, Steve’s not going to let him abandon you.”

“Bullshit,” Brock mumbled, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Stop draggin’ it out and just fuckin’  _ take him already _ .” 

Sam shook his head. He spared a glance for Winter, who had eyes for no one but Brock in that moment, before he whispered, “Making him choose is a burden on him, Rumlow. The guy can’t even tie his shoelaces, but Steve seems to think he’s capable of making life-changin’ decisions.” 

“So why bitch at me about it? Go bitch at that stupider fucker,” Brock growled. His eyes conveyed nothing but pure enervation, and Sam was sure that if he weren’t already so accustomed to performing to his highest standard while running on empty, he’d collapse at any moment. “I’m not the one doin’ this shit!” 

“I know you aren’t, and I  _ have  _ spoken to Steve about it in private,” Sam explained. “I’ve tried to tell him he can’t expect Barnes to do this; it’s something he can’t understand yet, and he’s not goin’ to get  _ why  _ Steve has made him choose - he’s going to feel like he’s been abandoned, no matter which way he goes.” 

Brock crinkled his nose and grit his teeth. It was too much; everything was too much, and Brock wanted to die. He turned his head to lock eyes with Steve, and with a snarl, he shoved at Winter as hard as he could, trying to push him towards Steve. “There. You fuckin’ win, cunt. Fuckin’ take him with you, bastard - what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it.” 

Steve frowned. He shook his head, trying to keep his demeanor as non-challenging as possible, but Brock knew that the single step forward Steve took towards him was a threat. “Don’t push him like that. And no, I’m not telling him what to do, Rumlow; he can make his own choices in his life.” 

“A choice he fuckin’ doesn’t get? How very fuckin’ thoughtful of you.” Brock shoved Winter once more, but just like the first time, Winter remained as unmoving as a brick wall. “Just take him. We all know he wants you, Rogers; who fuckin’  _ wouldn’t  _ want  _ you _ ? What would he want with someone like me? Someone who’s just gonna bring him down all the time? He’ll hate me eventually, Rogers - my own  _ parents  _ hated my guts. Wints won’t be any different; I’ll push him away eventually.” 

“Because you’re in a bad place in your life, but you can  _ get better _ !” Steve shook his head. Pleadingly, he tried, “Rumlow, just because you’re depressed  _ doesn’t  _ mean you’re a screw-up! Don’t think that you are, or you don’t deserve Bucky… I  _ know  _ you care about him, and I  _ know  _ he cares about you, too. You’re just in a very bad place mentally and you need help.” 

“Don’t talk about me like I’m some of… Some sort of  _ psycho _ ! I  _ left  _ HYDRA! I left HYDRA, and I took Wints with me! I’m not a good person, but I’m  _ not  _ a  _ monster _ !” 

“No one’s talking badly about you, Rumlow; they’re trying to tell us that you’re in a dark place, and without anyone to help you, you’re going to get worse.” Sam’s hands were out in front of him defensively, hoping his calming tone would be as effective with Brock as it was with his own patients. “I’m a therapist – I’ve lost clients to this so many times… I’ve seen firsthand what happens when someone doesn’t wanna get help.”

“Wints needs the help more than I do, but all you fuckers care about is makin’ him feel even worse!” Brock screamed. He was foaming at the mouth, his eyes almost bulging out of their sockets as his face went red from anger. He pushed Winter away from him, unable to stand feeling him clinging to him any longer while he knew just how much everyone was playing with Winter’s mind right now. “Instead of helpin’ him, you cunts are just tellin’ he gotta do shit he don’t even understand!” 

“Because it’s  _ his choice,  _ Rumlow!” Steve exclaimed. “I’m not taking it from him that he gets to  _ choose  _ his own life!” 

“Well you fuckin’ should be ‘cause it’ll do him less damage!” Brock snapped. “You wanna be a fuckin’ prick to him then  _ I’ll  _ choose for him! He’s goin’ with you ‘cause at least then he’s got a fuckin’ chance to be normal!” 

“No one is deciding for him!” Steve roared. “He gets to choose!” 

Brock was so worked up, he didn’t notice the way Winter inched away from him, so slowly, a turtle may have moved faster than him. Brock’s eyes were wet with tears as he kept his gaze locked solely on Steve so he could scream, “You’re supposed to be his friend but all you’re doin’ is causin’ him damage, you selfish cunt!” 

Steve opened his mouth to fight back, but he quickly shut it again when his attention was drawn to the sound of Winter vomiting so hard, Steve almost expected to see his guts out on the ground.

“Bucky!” Steve was by Winter’s side in a second, kneeling by the now-crumpled body that couldn’t seem to stop throwing up. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” 

For the first time since the argument had begun, an outsider stepped in to try and settle it. Coulson was moving in between them, his hands out much like Sam’s had been, as he nodded his head to Winter and murmured, “You guys should really cool it because I don’t think he can handle you two at each other’s throats like this.” 

“No, what he can’t handle is this dumb asshole trying to choose how Winter’s life is gonna be!” Brock snapped. He knelt, too, by Winter’s side, trying to ignore the way Winter stared blankly with wide, lifeless eyes that made his constant vomiting look creepier than it should be. 

Coulson’s tone was gentle,  _ too  _ gentle, and it made Brock want to punch him. “Well, no one should be deciding  _ anyone’s  _ life for them, but in this case, I think you all need someone who  _ isn’t  _ close to the situation to speak up or none of you will ever get anywhere. …’Cept maybe… a morgue?” 

Brock snorted, but he still wasn’t pleased. With as much sarcasm as he could muster, he taunted, “What,  _ you  _ think you know what Wints needs? Some fuckin’ random who hasn’t met him in his  _ life? _ ” 

Coulson gave a small shrug. “No… But from where I’m standing, I can see two men more interested in fighting over who’s right than taking a step back and removing their feelings from the situation to do what’s right for him.” 

“I know what’s right for him, Coulson; I’m giving him back his  _ humanity  _ by letting him choose,” Steve argued. 

“It’s just unnecessary stress for him, fuckwit! Take him with you and fuck off already!” Brock snapped. 

“Enough!” Coulson waited until both Steve and Brock were looking at him, with scowls and frowns on their faces as they waited for him to continue. “Look. I understand you both have only good intentions with… What do you want me to call him?” 

With Steve and Brock both growling their preferred names for Winter, they shot each other dirty glares as their answers blended into one. 

Coulson sighed. “Would it be offensive to either of you if I take the non-personal route and just call him James…?” 

“I would prefer if you –“ Steve was cut off by Brock elbowing him in the stomach.

“- Shut up, idiot! He’s the only person ‘sides your fuckin’ bird over there that’s never tried bendin’ him over and fuckin’ him,” Brock snarled. “Don’t fuckin’ encourage him to do somethin’ to Wints or I’ll gut you.” 

Coulson ignored Brock in favour of picking up where he’d left off. “Okay. So, I know you both have good intentions with James, but you guys are too emotionally invested to be able to see the picture clearly. Captain… I get that you love James, and I get that you worry about him and want only the best for him. But look at it like this. James has been stripped of his humanity for so long that dropping this bombshell on him… It’s too much too soon for him. It’s good that you want him to make decisions for himself, but you’re starting too big with him. He should be choosing what he wants for breakfast, or what he wants to watch on TV.” 

Brock shot Steve an I-told-you-so glare, but before he could say anything, Coulson continued.

“And Rumlow, I know you think that James can’t be happy with you… But pushing him on Steve like this isn’t the right answer, either.  _ I’m  _ going to be the one to help James with this because I’m not so intimately involved.” 

“But –“ 

“- No, let him do this, Cap,” Sam murmured. He gave an encouraging nod as he looked back at Coulson. “He’s right; this is what I’ve tried telling you before. Barnes needs someone who  _ isn’t  _ you to help him with this.” 

Steve bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. His eyes were pleading, but he trusted Sam’s judgement enough to keep his mouth shut and listen to what Coulson had to say. 

“Does he know the name James?” Coulson turned his attention back to Winter when Steve shook his head. He reached out to put his hand on Winter’s shoulder and hold him gently as he murmured, “Do you mind if I call you James?” 

Winter, who looked ready to vomit again, furrowed his eyebrows. Coulson understood the meaning behind it. 

“I’m going to call you James, but if you want me to call you something different, than you can tell me what you want me to call you,” Coulson promised kindly. Winter watched him with frightened, weary eyes that aged him decades. “I know everyone is confusing you with things you don’t understand, and it must be very frightening and stressful for you. But my team…” 

Winter looked past Coulson when Coulson waved back to the bedroom door at the small group gathered there, watching the scene carefully. “…” 

“…They need someone to help them around here, so Rumlow’s going to stay with us for a while and help them out. If you’d like to stay, too, then you are very welcome, James. We would love to have you on board with us, and if you wanted to, we’d even have some jobs that you could do – but if you would rather be with Steve, then nobody is going to stop you, James. That’s your choice to make.” 

Tears started flowing down Winter’s cheeks again now. He licked his lips for a few moments, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, before he finally managed to whisper, “Steve no stay help…?” 

Coulson shook his head. “No, he is going to go and help his other friends, but he’s going to come and visit you when he can if you stay here to help us. I think you would really like it here, James. You liked it when we showed you around the plane, didn’t you?” 

If Winter had heard the question, he didn’t acknowledge it verbally. Instead, his pupils dilated so much, he looked drug affected, and the paling of his face as he fought back another wave of nausea didn’t help his appearance. “But… Steve no stay help…” 

“No, James.” 

With that, Winter started vomiting again. Nothing any of them did for him stopped the nausea, and Winter was barely aware of the way his heart raced so drastically, he was breathless as he gasped for what little air could enter his lungs in between waves of vomit. Winter didn’t notice the way his body started quivering, nor was he aware of himself falling into a seizure; all he knew was that when he next gained consciousness, he was in an unfamiliar bed, tucked in beneath the blankets, with Brock sleeping next to him. 

Winter didn’t know how he knew, but no matter how hard he cried, he knew that Steve wasn’t going to come back. 

***

Winter refused to come out of the bed for the rest of the day, and he refused all food and drink as well. Brock stayed with him, laying next to him and stroking his hair, trying to coax him into eating something to keep his strength up. 

Coulson came in to check on them at what the bedroom clock told Brock was just after six. Coulson wasn’t accompanied by anyone, and Brock didn’t know if he was grateful or resentful for it. 

“Steve wanted me to give this to James.” Coulson reached into his pocket and resurfaced with a phone, a simple flip top that looked severely outdated to today’s technology. 

Brock reached across Winter to take the phone from Coulson. He opened the lid and brought up the contacts, not surprised to find that Steve’s number was the only one entered. He stayed silent as he entered his own number into the contacts for Winter, hating to see it looking so barren, before he passed the phone to Winter. “Why’d he just up and leave like that? Thought he cared about Wints…” 

“He does,” Coulson agreed gently. “That’s why he left. He knows James is in good hands with us – he’s  _ safe  _ and will be looked after. But after all those years, I don’t think he could emotionally handle seeing him seizing like that. I’ve never seen a man cry as hard as he was when I took him outside for fresh air…” 

Brock frowned. He patted Winter’s hair again, not wanting to think about what state Steve had been in while they’d tried to settle Winter’s seizing body. He let out a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, not sure what else to say. 

Coulson, who didn’t want the two to be uncomfortable around him, tried to make conversation. He gestured to Winter, and referring to the way Winter held the phone out in front of him and stared at it with concentration, he asked, “Does he know how to use phones?” 

“Yeah, he does. He’s good with technology.” Brock left it at that, not wanting to admit that Winter was only so good at technology because HYDRA had trained him to be – failure to understand meant torture, and Brock could only wonder if it would cause Winter fear to have his own phone. 

Coulson smiled. “That’s good. Does he like it? He might enjoy being with Fitz and Simmons in the lab.” 

“If he fuckin’ gets out of bed again…” Brock mumbled. 

“He needs time to adjust; I’m sure he’ll come out tomorrow,” Coulson said softly. “Put the TV on for him; he might fall asleep to it.” 

Brock grunted. He reached out to the bedside table next to him to take the remote and turn the TV on, putting the channel to cartoons to try and draw Winter’s interest. 

“I’m going to leave and get some things done, but Simmons would like to give you both health checks and make sure that James especially is healthy – she said he could have a lot of health issues with how HYDRA had him.” 

“Oh, he does,” Brock muttered. “He fuckin’ does…” 

“Simmons can help with that,” Coulson promised. “She’ll make sure he’s in the best health he can be.” 

“Yay, can she fix his brain so he can actually function as a fuckin’ person?” Brock drawled sarcastically. He dragged the blankets up and over his head to signal that the conversation was ended, not wanting to have to talk about how broken Winter was mentally. 

Brock hoped that Coulson would take the hint and just leave, but instead, from beneath the blankets, he could hear him murmuring kindly to Winter, talking to him about Steve from the sounds of it. The conversation didn’t last long though; Brock felt the blankets being moved to tuck Winter in tighter, and then receding footsteps left the room until it was only he and Winter. 

Brock pulled the blankets down from over his head so he could look at Winter. Winter was staring at his phone again, as if he truly believed that if he stared hard enough at it, it would do whatever it was he was wanting it to do. “Hey. You okay?” 

Winter looked at Brock with tear-filled eyes. He sniffed softly before he murmured, “Steve call…?”

Brock sighed, not sure what the best answer to the question was, because really… What if Steve  _ never  _ called…? “…I don’t know, Wints…” 

A single tear rolled down Winter’s cheek before he whispered, “Steve leave… Bucky  _ bad _ …?” 

“You’re  _ not  _ bad, Wints, and you’re  _ not  _ bein’ punished,” Brock swore. “I don’t know why he left without tellin’ you; he didn’t talk to me either. But you’re  _ not  _ bad.” 

Winter was crying again, sniffling quietly to himself as he whimpered incomprehensible things to himself. Brock wondered if he were trying to self-soothe, repeating what Brock was telling him like he’d  _ believe  _ it if he said it enough times. 

All Brock knew was that if Steve had set Winter back in his recovery, Brock was going to fuckin’  _ murder  _ him. 


	18. Chapter 18

Two weeks came and went, and if Brock had never worried about Winter before, he certainly was now.

“I need the drip again.” Brock wasn’t polite in his request, but the young woman he’d come to know as Jemma Simmons paid him no mind and immediately set about gathering the water drip for Winter.

“Is he eating yet?” Simmons was sympathetic with Winter, Brock was coming to learn. She never hesitated to do what she could for Winter in his emotionally bedridden state, and if Brock didn’t know any better, he might actually think that she liked them.

But Brock _did_ know better, and there was _no way_ someone as pretty and intelligent as _her_ would _ever_ like people like _them._

“Nah.” Brock accepted the drip that was handed to him, but it wasn’t without hesitation; to accept the help of the people on the plane was demeaning, uncomfortable, and Brock _hated_ it. “Won’t eat, but I’ve been puttin’ honey on his lips - he licks it off eventually.”

“I’ll give you another IV to feed him; just let me prepare some nutrition for him.” Simmons bustled through her lab to throw together slop too closely resembling what HYDRA fed to Winter, claiming that it would contain all the nutrients his weakened body would need to recover strength and health. Brock wasn’t quite convinced of her word; HYDRA had claimed something similar with their own goo, yet Winter had always been somewhat sickly even when on the IVs.

Brock took everything that was given to him with a murmured thanks. He shook his head when Simmons asked if he needed her to get the drips into Winter. “Nah, he used to get a lot of this shit back with HYDRA so I’m used to doin’ it for him…”

“If you want me to, I can -”

“- No!” Brock didn’t mean to snap, but really, did they think he was too incompetent to care for Winter on his own? Why were they always trying to take over Winter’s care like they thought he would do a shit job? They had no idea of some of the situations Brock had cared for Winter in!

Brock didn’t stick around to see if Simmons had anything more she wanted to say; he took the drips and went straight back to the room he shared with Winter.

“Wints?” Brock kicked the bedroom door shut behind him as he juggled everything in his arms. He looked to the bed to see what Winter was doing, expecting nothing more than what he found; just as he had been doing every day, he laid in bed, his flip top phone in hand as he stared longingly at it.

If Brock ever got his hands on Steve again, he was gonna strangle the fucker for doing this to Wints.

Brock said nothing until he had gotten to the bed and deposited everything on the bedside table. “Y’know you can call him yourself, right? You don’t have to wait for him to call you.”

Winter shook his head. With exhausted, fearful eyes, he slowly turned his gaze to Brock and whispered, “No like Bucky…”

“You’re scared he doesn’t like you anymore?” Brock sighed when Winter gave a firm nod in response. “He still likes you, Wints. I promise. Give him a call.”

Winter whimpered. Brock could only sigh and fight back the agitation he felt at Winter’s continued helplessness - this was a man who could tear his way through entire armies on his own, yet he couldn’t even make a fuckin’ phone call!

But it wasn’t Winter’s fault, Brock had to remember; between the trauma and the brain damage, it was going to be a long journey for Winter to get better.

“Wints…” Brock forced himself to remain calm. He shook his head, careful about the words he chose. “Wints, I can’t do everythin’ for ya… You’ve gotta learn to start doin’ stuff for yourself, too…”

Winter’s face paled like it had the day Steve had left. Brock felt his heart start to race and his hands go clammy at the thought of Winter seizing from stress again. He gagged, but he didn’t vomit, much to Brock’s relief.

“Hates Bucky…” Winter whispered fearfully, his eyes wide and filled with tears. “Hates Winter…”

“No, he doesn’t,” Brock promised. “He didn’t leave because of you.”

Winter looked to his lap. He put the phone down beside him so he could clutch at the blankets like a frightened child after a nightmare. “...Did… Did… Everyone hate Winter… Leave Winter… Everyone…”

“No, don’t say that, Wints.” Brock reached out to brush hair from Winter’s face before cupping his cheeks and holding him close. “He doesn’t hate you – swear it. He loves ya. He loves ya like _I_ love you, Wints, but he just couldn’t stay. Nothin’ you did – promise – but life fuckin’ sucks like that.”

Winter heaved out a gasping, exhausted breath. He looked so exhausted, like a man who’d been battling wars his entire life. In a way, it hurt Brock to know that that wasn’t far from the truth. “…”

Brock moved closer. He allowed Winter to lay his head on his shoulder. “’Sides, thought you didn’t like him too much.”

Winter shook his head. “Steve… Steve…”

Brock wasn’t fluent in Russian by any means. The bits and pieces he knew were just enough to get him by, and he didn’t always understand what Winter needed whenever he reverted back to his default settings. Like now, as he stayed still and tried to piece together the Russian he had just been spoken to in.

Brock cocked his head to the side. “You want… You got used to Rogers being there?”

Winter nodded. He mumbled again in Russian, unable to find the words he needed in English.

“You need the consistency…” Brock realised. “You must think I’m gonna leave you, too…”

Winter nodded. His eyes looked damp, and Brock couldn’t help but wish he’d succeeded in swallowing that bullet because maybe then, Rogers would’ve taken Winter and given him a proper life.

“Well, I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Brock tried to reassure. “I’m not, Wints. I’m here with you.”

“He said that, too….” Winter whispered. His entire facial expression was downcast, like he’d lost every last shred of hope he’d had left. “He said that, too… But he’s gone…”

Brock felt like the biggest asshole in the world, because Winter needed someone he could be dependent on, but Brock didn’t want to live; how long would it be before he killed himself and left Winter all alone to struggle his way through a life that would probably kill him, too?

Brock didn’t deserve Winter. Not one bit. And that knowledge only made him want to die more.

***

“Winter, I’m going out for a bit.” Brock tied the laces of his boots before he stood up from the edge of the bed and turned around to drape the blankets over Winter. He brushed greasy hair away from Winter’s temple so he could lean down and plant a kiss there. “I’ll be back in ten minutes. Promise.”

Winter didn’t move in the slightest, didn’t acknowledge Brock in any manner; he only laid in the bed, curled up on his side and staring blankly at the wall. If he noticed Brock moving his IV cords safely beneath the blanket, he didn’t show it; the only signs that he was still alive were the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each breath, and his fingers squeezing the phone in his hand anxiously.

Brock left without another word. He tugged his jacket tighter around his shoulders, forcing himself to walk a prideful stride instead of bunching his shoulders up and ducking his head. He hoped his journey to the kitchen would go unimpeded, but of course it didn’t; when did anything ever go his way?

“Hey, you okay?”

Brock scowled loathingly at the man blocking his way. He didn’t care that the other man was twice his size and looked as if he could snap him like a twig; he only hardened his body and pushed past him. “Move.”

“Not gonna make many friends like that.” There was humour in his words, but the man Brock knew was nicknamed Trip had a strange glint of emotion in his eyes. “You okay? You look sad.”

“I’m not; this is my annoyed face,” Brock growled. He stepped into the kitchen and went straight for the fridge, glad to see there were enough ingredients to make a smoothie for himself and Winter. “Leave me alone; I’m not here to make friends.”

Though Trip didn’t seem hurt or offended by those words, his tone still dropped to a gentle murmur. “But there’s plenty of people here who want to be your friend.”

Brock’s nose crinkled in distaste. “Bullshit. Won’t be any different to STRIKE; I’ll be the one doin’ all the carin’ while my men are out on the field hopin’ it’s _me_ who gets killed next ‘cause they can’t _stand_ me – just like everyone else!”

“It’s not the same here,” Trip assured. “No one here would ever let you get hurt.”

“They’d jump at the first chance to get rid of me – why _wouldn’t_ they? Fuck, _I’d_ want to get rid of me, too. I’m just a fuckin’ useless waste of space who couldn’t even cut it as a fuckin’ terrorist Nazi and I just want to _die!_ ”

“You’re not useless, or a waste of space,” Trip promised. “You –“

“- I don’t fuckin’ wanna hear it!” Brock snapped. “Don’t feed me that bullshit about _carin’_ when you’re just like the rest of them! You’ll be _happy_ when I finally blow my brains out!”

Trip kept his mouth firmly shut after that. If it was because he knew Brock was right, or he just didn’t know what else to say, Brock didn’t know. But he didn’t stop Brock from entering the kitchen, nor did he follow him inside.

Brock felt relief when the kitchen door slammed closed behind him, glad to be alone and away from all those fake fucks who couldn’t have given two shits if Brock’s body was found in a ditch somewhere.

The relief didn’t last long, though, because as soon as Brock’s eyes fixed on another body moving around the kitchen, he felt anger filling him, and his hands clenched at the urge to beat the other unconscious.

In the back of Brock’s mind, he wondered if this was how Winter had felt every time a HYDRA agent had approached him.

Brock didn’t greet the other, nor was he greeted; they stayed on their own sides of the kitchen, silent and focused on their own tasks. Brock did his best to pretend he was alone, chopping fruit and humming loudly to try and block out every noise the other made. Before he could tip everything into the blender and turn it on, he became acutely aware of a presence close to him – _too_ close, and Brock wanted to _hurt_ them for it.

Brock spun around on the spot to give the other a harsh glare. “ _What_.”

The frightened flinch and several steps backwards that answered him shouldn’t have made Brock feel like such an asshole, but they did. “I-I… I-I…”

Brock’s anger drained, and instead it was replaced by self-loathing the longer his eyes stayed focused on the trembling body standing before him. It was too much like Winter, too scared and confused and not knowing what would set Brock off and get him _hurt_.

Brock let out a heavy sigh. “Fitz, right?”

“Yes…” The young man was looking down at his feet now, his curls making it hard for Brock to see what expression he was wearing.

Brock stepped to the side to reveal the blender. He gestured at it as he asked, “You want this?”

Fitz lifted his head just enough to peer at what Brock was pointing to. He gave a tiny nod before he looked back down. “…”

Brock felt a pang of hurt at just how much this poor kid reminded him of Winter. Who knew just what he’d gone through, too. Instinct took over, and he forced himelf to stay calm. “You want me to make you one, too, kid? They’re healthy. I used to make these for Winter all the time ‘cause the shit HYDRA kept him on didn’t give him enough nutrients.”

Fitz looked warily at what Brock had laid out on the chopping board. He hesitated, but he gave another tiny nod. He clutched his ingredients tighter in his arms before he turned around to take them back to the fridge.

“Hey.” Brock tipped everything in the blender and turned it on as he called out to Fitz. “I’ll put ‘em away. Don’t worry.”

Not another word was spoken after that. The blender roared in the background as Brock put away everything Fitz had had in his arms. When he returned, he poured the smoothie into two glasses, silent as he handed one to Fitz.

Brock didn’t know what had possessed him to do it, but as he stood there, watching Fitz sip warily at the smoothie, he reached out and ruffled his hair gently.

Brock left in a hurry after that. He returned to his room and went straight to Winter’s side so he could unhook the IVs from him and help him sit up. Brock couldn’t stand to see that Winter hadn’t moved an inch during his absence.

“Right…” Brock was gentle as he pulled the last IV from Winter’s arm. “I’ve got somethin’ for ya to drink, Wints. Just a couple sips.”

Winter’s clouded eyes looked at the smoothie, and in less than a second, he was vomiting on himself. Brock felt tears of frustration well in his eyes as he grabbed Winter by the shoulders and steadied him before he collapsed forward.

“Hey…” Brock reached to the bedside table to take the box and tissues and clean the vomit from Winter’s face. “Y’know, super soldiers can’t afford to _not_ eat or drink… Their metabolism is too fast – look at all the weight you’ve lost, Wints… Just a few sips? Please…?”

Winter let out a groan as his eyes locked onto the smoothie again. Brock moved back when Winter started heaving again, more vomit escaping him.

“Christ…” Brock knew it wasn’t good for Winter to be off his food like this. He chewed at his lip as he tried to think about how he could get him to eat something, but he couldn’t think of many options.

Unless…

“Lay back down, Wints. On your side in case you throw up again.” Brock’s hands were gentle as he guided Winter down. “I’ll be right back.”

Winter still clutched his phone like a lifeline as his eyes followed Brock out of the room. Brock didn’t look back at him; instead, he made his way to the front of the plane, relieved to find the very same person he had hoped would be there.

“You gotta text Rogers for me and tell him to call Wints; poor thing is dyin’,” Brock gruffed.

Part of Brock had expected for Coulson to scold him, to remind him of his place and who was in charge there – but instead, from where Coulson sat next to May in the cockpit, he only pulled his phone from his pocket and asked, “What should I tell him?”

Brock toyed with the right words in his mind, not sure just how much information he wanted to divulge to these people he still didn’t trust. “Tell him Wints has gotta hear from him ‘cause he thinks he’s been abandoned.”

Coulson didn’t hesitate to send the message. From beside him, May narrowed her eyes curiously at Brock and asked, “What’s wrong with your neck?”

“What about it?” Self-consciously, Brock reached up to rub at his neck. He chewed at the inside of his cheek as his fingers rubbed against a hard bulge, anxiety settling in his stomach when he found three more scattered around his neck. “Fuck.”

“Did you hurt your neck, Rumlow?” Coulson reached out to feel the lumps, but he pulled his hand back when Brock flinched and moved away.

“Yeah – smashed the van… Been hurtin’ ever since…”

“Get Simmons to look at it for you,” May instructed. “That looks like it could be dangerous.”

Brock waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care; might fuckin’ finally kill me.”

Coulson and May stayed quiet, as if they were too afraid to say the wrong thing and set Brock off further.

Brock heaved out a heavy sigh. “Fuck it… I’m goin’ back to Wints…”

Brock heard Coulson talking to him, but he wasn’t interested in anything Coulson had to say to him; he left the cockpit, ignoring everything until he’d reached his room once more. He didn’t open the door and step inside; instead, he pressed his ear against the door and listened for any signs of life, wondering if Steve had gotten his message and had called Winter.

“Fuckin’ cunt…” Brock felt his blood boil at the silence within the room. He should have known better. He should have known that Steve would never call; he’d just seen for himself how much hard work Winter was and chickened out. That’s all it was; Steve was no fuckin’ better than HYDRA.

But what surprised Brock was to open the door and find Winter, still lying in bed where Brock had left him, but laying with his eyes closed peacefully as he held his phone to his ear.

“Wints?” Brock shut the door behind him. “Someone call you?”

Winter cracked open an eyelid to focus on Brock. He gave a stiff nod before his eyes closed again, looking more at ease than he had in weeks.

Brock took the phone from Winter. He pretended not to notice the wince of fear, nor the whimper that escaped Winter. He put it to his ear and rasped, “Hey, Cap…”

“Rumlow.” On the other end of the line, Steve sounded surprised. “Is Bucky okay? He hasn’t been talking back to me.”

“Yeah, he’s fine. But you gotta call him more often, Cap; he’s lost so much weight – thinks he’s been abandoned.”

A hitch of breath could be heard over the phone before Steve murmured sadly, “I’ve been wanting to call him but I was just so busy…”

“Well, fuckin’ make time!” Brock snapped. “He’s not eatin’ or drinkin’ and I’ve had him on fuckin’ drips!”

“I’m sorry, I just –“

“- Don’t be fuckin’ sorry and just _fix_ it!” Brock snapped. “I’m givin’ the phone back to Wints. Get your shit together, Rogers!”

Brock passed the phone back to Winter. He didn’t stick around to watch the way Winter immediately went back to that calmed state once he felt the phone in his hand, nor did he try and listen to what Steve had to say; instead, he kept himself busy with tidying the bedroom, picking up dirty clothes from the floor to throw into the washing basket.

Brock wasn’t sure how long had passed before he went to Winter’s side to take the all-but-abandoned smoothie and drink it, but as soon as the glass hit his lips, he felt Winter tugging weakly at his shirt.

“Yeah?” Brock lowered the glass so he could watch Winter carefully. “You okay, Wints?”

Winter’s eyes fixed on the glass, and though his face paled sickly at the sight of the smoothie, he still raised a hand shaking from illness and pointed at it.

“You want to drink it now?” Brock let out a sigh of relief at Winter’s small nod. “Okay. But just a few sips for now; gotta get your stomach workin’ again or you’ll throw up again.”

Winter tried so hard to take the sips he knew Brock wanted him to have, but he couldn’t; every time the smoothie came close to him, he vomited, again and again until Brock deemed Winter too sick to be consuming liquids on his own so soon.

“Gotta get you better first,” Brock soothed as he brushed stray strands of brown behind Winter’s ear. “Get you all better, and make sure that fuckin’ ass calls you more often. You’d like that, Wints?”

Winter nodded. He closed his eyes again, weighed down by the fatigue that had plagued him since Steve had told him he had to choose. He fell asleep on his own for the first time since Steve had left, no need for the sedatives Brock had been pumping him full of to help him sleep.

A week later, Brock was handed a parcel from Coulson, containing a single set of earpiece communicators and a letter from Steve to Bucky, telling him to leave them in his ear all the time so they could talk easier.


	19. Chapter 19

Winter was used to people fearing him. He’d seen it so often with the other HYDRA agents, he’d learnt that people hated the things they feared. When someone was scared of something, they hurt it. They tortured it, made it feel fear and pain to remind it of its place and ensure it never tried to fight back.

When someone was scared of something, they didn’t _smile_ at it.

“Hey, Bucky, what’cha doin’?”

Winter’s body was tense and ready for flight. He knew this question – albeit knew the question being asked in a much more aggressive manner. His head was cocked curiously; was he in trouble or not?

Winter’s furrowed eyebrows and confused frown must have been the only answer the girls needed from him, because the black-haired woman Winter was sure was named Skye was approaching him now, her hand in front of her in a placating manner. “...”

“We didn’t think we’d see you without Rumlow.” Skye’s voice was gentle, her movements towards Winter slow. From behind her, Simmons watched with her own smile, but it only confused Winter more. “Are you looking for him? He’s with Coulson.”

Winter stepped back, keeping the distance between he and the girls. He held eye contact with them, giving a soft growl when Skye backed him into a corner and tried to touch his hair. He knew what it meant when people reached for his hair; it meant his hair would be almost ripped from his scalp as he was forced to his knees in submission.

From within the earpiece Winter never let anyone take from him, he heard Steve’s worried voice asking if he was okay. He gave no response, but the lack of growls to follow the question must have reassured Steve that Winter was okay, because he didn’t ask again.

“You should sit up at the bench, Bucky,” Simmons offered, still on the other side of the room. “It mustn’t be very comfortable down there on the ground.”

Winter didn’t fall for the trap. Not this time. He’d fallen for it too many times before to do it again – not when it wasn’t _Brock_ telling him it was okay. He stayed on the ground and watched the girls, his eyes never leaving them as they went back to what they were doing and eventually turned their attention away from him. He stayed in his corner with his knees tucked against his chest as he watched them, trying to piece together as much information about them as he could.

But unfortunately, most of his newfound knowledge was useless, and if he’d still been with HYDRA, he would have been punished if he told them that he’d discovered Skye had a habit of looking at him, and Simmons asked him stupid, binary questions he never responded to anyway.

But HYDRA was gone, and Brock never minded the intel Winter gave him, even if it was useless. He’d have to remember to tell Brock what he’d found out when Brock was finished doing whatever it was he’d left to do earlier.

The girls left the lab. They’d given Winter a curious look before leaving, but neither of them had said anything to him. That must be the fear of him finally kicking in, where they were too scared to acknowledge him in case he lashed out at them. The techs had been like that, where no matter how physically close they had to be to him, they had to keep him restrained like a wild animal liable to rip their throats out otherwise.

Winter’s chest felt strange, heavy with something he couldn’t identify.

Winter followed the girls – at a safe distance, of course; he didn’t want to get too close to them where somebody could get hurt. The question was, _why_ had he followed them, though? Why had he followed them when they could _hurt_ him?

Winter didn’t know, but it was enough to make him stop in the doorway when they walked into a large room, not sure if he was allowed to come inside or not. What if he wasn’t allowed, and going in there would make them take him back to the chair?

Now that he was thinking about it, what if he wasn’t supposed to have gone into the lab, too?

The door was heavy on Winter as he stayed still, only his eyes moving as he followed every little movement within the room. It was some sort of area like at Brock’s home, where the sofa and the box with the moving pictures had been, but this room looked much bigger. There were lots of sofas in here, boxes with moving pictures much, _much_ bigger than the one Brock had had. Lots and lots of books decorated the walls, and Winter couldn’t help but whine at how welcoming the room looked to be.

The girls looked back at Winter at his whine. They offered him more smiles, but still, they didn’t speak to him. Winter felt that strange tug in his chest again as he tried to understand what he had done to make them hate him.

Another pained whine escaped Winter. He dropped to his knees, curling up once again in the doorway. Maybe the girls had taken pity on his pathetic existence, because finally, they spoke to him.

“What’s wrong, Bucky?” Skye was leaning over the sofa to look at him, Simmons on the other side of the room as she dragged her finger along the spines of the books on the shelf she was standing in front of. “You can come in if you want.”

Winter was feeling that now-familiar urge to vomit at the idea of entering the room. His face paled, and he curled in on himself tighter, laying in a ball on the ground with the door still on him.

Skye got up and approached him again. She knelt before him, her hand coming towards him once more. Winter growled at her, but this time, she didn’t heed it; she put her hand in his hair and _smiled_. “Come inside; you can sit on the sofa with us. We don’t mind.”

Winter squeezed his eyes shut tight as his entire body trembled so suddenly with pleasure, he was taken by surprise. He pressed into the touch, not understanding how a hand that wasn’t Brock’s could feel so _good_.

Skye didn’t seem to mind Winter’s pathetic behaviour, because she continued patting his head as she murmured, “Come on. Come sit with us.”

Winter was a good boy who did what he was told. Winter did what he was told to do, and even if he didn’t always want to obey now, he knew that Brock wanted him to listen to these people, too – and besides, maybe if he was on his best behaviour, Skye would pet his head again. It wasn’t bad for him to want his head played with again, was it? Brock and Steve and Sam always told him it was okay for him to want things.

Winter got to his feet and followed Skye. He hesitated to get onto the sofa, but when she pulled at his right arm and encouraged him up, he obeyed like the good little soldier he was.

…But Winter didn’t want to be a good little soldier anymore. He just wanted to be a good Winter – a good _Bucky_.

“That’s it.” Skye smiled as she patted Winter’s right shoulder, smoothening down his jacket and wiping the creases from his shirt. “You can sit with us whenever you want, Bucky.”

Simmons returned to the sofa. As hard as Winter searched for it, he couldn’t find any fear in her expression – instead, she was grinning nearly ear-to-ear, and he just didn’t understand _why_.

“Look what I found, Bucky.” Simmons was shoving a book into Winter’s hands _far_ too enthusiastically for someone like _him_ ; she should have been running away screaming from him because some of the things he’d done to women, he’d –

Winter forced himself to cut his train of thought off and instead peer down at the book. “…”

“It must be one of Coulson’s; he’s a huge Captain American fanboy.” Simmons was doing that thing Winter knew people did, but usually when it involved him being tortured. Was it… Laughter…? “But have a look at it, Bucky; a lot of it is about you, too!”

Winter’s frown only grew. He tentatively opened the heavy red and blue striped cover of the book to look at the first page. That nauseas feeling he’d become accustomed to returned as he found himself looking at a black-and-white picture of Steve, looking just as he had the last time Winter had seen him.

Winter tucked his shoulders in tightly and curled against himself uncomfortably. He reached up and fingered his communicator nervously. With a single lick to his lips, he whispered, “Steve…?”

The earpiece crackled to life instantly. “Yes, Buck?”

Winter licked his lips again before he shook his head and mumbled an uncertain no. He knew Steve could hear what was happening around him, and as long as Steve knew he wasn’t in immediate danger, he wouldn’t push him to respond properly.

Skye was talking to him again, Winter was aware. Raving excitedly about some sort of commando group and the _Bucky_ Winter used to be. Winter didn’t understand why she was so excited talking about him; he’d done nothing to deserve the praise she lavished on the man he used to be.

Winter looked further through the book. So much of it was about Steve, about his life before Captain America and his ailments while growing up.

It was the picture of Steve and Bucky together, smiling and _laughing_ as their eyes sparkled with life and _happiness_ that had Winter freezing up.

“Bucky?”

Somebody was touching his shoulder now, and Winter whimpered and pulled away. He reached up to touch his hair, hyper aware to the point it was _painful_ to feel his long hair touching his neck and face. He pulled at it with his metal hand, yanking a chunk from his scalp.

“Bucky, don’t hurt yourself!”

His metal hand was being pulled away from his hair, and he let it happen. It wasn’t right, having such long hair. His hair was supposed to be short, like in the photo – not this…  This long mess of hair that was forever getting in his eyes. That hair wasn’t supposed to _be there._

His face was fuller in the picture. Healthier. His whole body was smaller and leaner, less muscular, but _lithe_. Winter panicked to realise that his muscles bulged through his clothing now. He brought his right wrist to his mouth to gnaw violently at his flesh.

The worst part of it all was to see that he hadn’t always had the metal monstrosity attached to his shoulder. He wailed as he tried to pull it from his body, but of course, the girls wouldn’t let him.

Winter cried as he dropped himself onto his side and hid his face against Skye’s stomach. Even the soothing hands running through his hair weren’t enough to comfort him; he could only sob and wail as a life he didn’t remember threatened to burst into his mind and fully cement the reality of everything he had been through.

The girls never stopped calling him Bucky, and somewhere deep in his churning stomach, he was sure that was only making him cry more.

***

“Brock…?” Winter shivered as Brock’s eyes fixed on him. He looked away, unable to hold eye contact with him. He pulled the blankets up higher over him, looking like a meek child hiding in bed from the monsters of the night. “…Can… Can…”

Brock pulled his cigarette from his lips and turned to sit facing Winter to give him his full attention. “What’s wrong?”

“…” Winter closed his eyes, trying his hardest not to slip into Russian just because he couldn’t find the words he needed in English. “…Do you think… Can Winter maybe… Winter maybe – I-I… Do you think I… can maybe not… be called Bucky…?”

“You don’t have to be called anythin’ you don’t like, Wints,” Brock promised. “Steve annoyin’ ya?”

Winter shook his head. “Umm… Everyone… keeps calling Winter… But Winter… Winter isn’t ‘Bucky’…”

“What makes you say that?”

Winter’s frown grew. He took a few minutes to find the right words, but eventually, he whispered, “Bucky is a good person… Winter isn’t.”

“Fuck off Winter isn’t a good person,” Brock growled. “Better person than I am.”

Winter shook his head. “No… Not good like Bucky... Did bad things, Brock...”

“Yeah - ‘cause you were fuckin’ _brainwashed_ , Wints! You didn’t do it ‘cause you _wanted_ to - you were _forced_ to!” Brock snapped.

“But...” Winter let out a shaky breath. A single tear rolled down his cheek. “...Bucky wouldn’t do what Winter did... So Winter can’t be Bucky again...”

Brock sighed. He forced himself to speak calmly, but while his tone was so strained, Winter knew Brock was losing patience with him again. “You don’t want them callin’ you Bucky?”

Winter shook his head.

Brock let out a heavy breath and through his nose. “Then you get to choose that, Wints. That’s _your_ choice to make.”

Winter sniffed back a tear. “I’m not supposed to be allowed to choose...”

“I tell you _all the time,_ Wints,” Brock forced out, “you’re _allowed_ to _choose_ what you like. You don’t want to be called Bucky? That’s fuckin’ _good_ that you’re takin’ your life back.”

Winter let out another shuddery breath. He shook his head. “Just don’t... wanna be Bucky anymore...”

“You want to be Winter instead?”

A pained grimace crossed Winter’s face now. He hesitated before he whispered, “I want… I want… I want to be… good person. Not Bucky, and not Winter… But good person. I don’t… want everyone to be _scared_ of me…”

Brock reached out and dragged his fingers through Winter’s hair. He moved his cigarette to his lips again to take another puff before he rasped, “I think that fuckin’ duck of yours thought you were a good person. I told you to leave the fucker alone but you helped it anyway, Wints. Whatever shit HYDRA did to you… I don’t think they took away the good in you, no matter what you’ve done, Wints. You would never have given that duck a second glance if they had.”

Winter lowered the blankets after a moment’s hesitation. He let out a heavy sigh before he moved to hide his face against Brock’s thigh. He mumbled something incomprehensible before he lifted his head and peered up at Brock. “Can… Can you still call me Winter…? I like it… But I don’t want to be Winter anymore. I don’t want to be Winter _or_ Bucky, but… No know who else can be…”

“Yep. I’ll still call ya Wints.”

Winter hid his face again. Feeling bold now that Brock was encouraging his newfound desire, he mumbled, “I want… I want everyone to like Winter…”

“I think they already do.” Brock put his cigarette out and abandoned it in the ashtray before he reached over and turned the light switch off, bathing the room in darkness broken only by the muted TV playing cartoons. He rested his hand in Winter’s hair, playing gently with the long strands. “So… Coulson made me play therapist with him today… Fuckin’ annoyin’, actually. But I was tellin’ him ‘bout how you keep me grounded, and I was worried they wouldn’t trust us. He said the girls ‘specially fuckin’ love you already.”

“They smiled at me today,” Winter whispered.

“Yeah?” Brock smiled as well, moving his hand from Winter’s hair to his cheek to rub it. “Got yourself some girlfriends, huh?”

Winter frowned. He shook his head. “No… Girls not like Winter.”

“Yeah? From what I hear you were a real lady’s man back in the day.” Brock smirked.

“No…”

Brock chuckled. He pulled Winter into a kiss, a deep, long-lasting kiss that Winter reciprocated. He broke away to kiss Winter’s forehead and whisper, “I’m glad, actually – means I get you all to myself.”

Winter nodded. “And Steve.”

Brock snorted. “I _still_ gotta share with that fucker?”

“Yes.” Winter was quickly coming out of his shell now, Brock was glad to see. Though Brock had been about to go to bed, it was worth staying up just to tease Winter a little more.

That night was the first night to end in uninterrupted, enjoyed intimacy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Brock refused to go near anyone else. His “therapy” sessions with Coulson were about the only times he allowed someone other than Winter to come near him, and even that he couldn’t tolerate well. 

Brock could never help the agitation involved when Winter wanted him to accompany on his social outings - stalking was a better word for it with the way Winter just sat and stared at everyone in a manner too creepy to really be called people watching. Brock hated being dragged along, because Winter got  _ too  _ close to them all - especially to the girls - and that meant Brock had to be dragged too close as well, and no one seemed to understand the meaning of personal space on this fucking plane.

“Wints. Cut it out.” Brock didn’t even try to hold back the annoyance as he watched Winter pull his hand back to his own body like he’d been burnt by lava. “Leave ‘em alone.” 

“He’s okay, Rumlow; he’s not hurting.” The wince Skye had just recovered from told Brock otherwise, but Brock couldn’t be fucked, really; he just wanted Winter to hurry up and get bored so they could go back to bed and sleep the rest of the day away. “He’s just playing; he pulled a bit too hard; it’s okay.”

Winter donned a nervous expression at the exchange between the two. He licked his lips before his mouth opened and closed wordlessly a few times until he finally forced out, hesitant and uncertain as if he were speaking a foreign language, “Playing… Just… Playing…” 

“You don’t fuckin’ yank on someone’s hair like that, Wints; that’s how they get scalped,” Brock scolded. “You hate people pullin’ on your hair, don’t you?” 

Winter’s expression morphed into one of pure horror and remorse. Brock knew him well enough to know to look and see the tears welling in his eyes. Winter pushed himself all the way to the other end of the sofa and stared down at his lap, his lower lip quivering with withheld tears. 

“Fuck…” Brock mentally slapped himself for being too harsh - but really, this was too much for him, too many people together in the one room and he just wanted to  _ leave _ . “Wints… C’mon…” 

Skye closed the gap between her and Winter again. She gave him a gentle smile as she reached for his flesh hand with both of hers, taking it and marveling in silence at just how big his hand was to have to use both of hers to hold it. Slowly, careful not to startle Winter, she moved his hand back to her hair and rested it there. “It’s okay.” 

Winter shook his head and pulled his hand back to his lap. He frowned deeply, looking down, his head still shaking as he tried not to think about how he was disobeying direct orders again and he’d likely be punished by these new people because sometimes even  _ Brock  _ had to punish him when he was being bad.

“No, really. It’s okay.” Skye repeated the process, this time holding Winter’s hand in her hair. “Just be gentle this time. It’s okay.” 

Winter looked back at Skye. He looked ready to cry, his hand staying still for a long while until finally, he gathered the courage and moved his hand just a tiny bit to the side. He calmed down when no movement he made caused pain to Skye, and with this comfort, he began stroking her hair, so lightly, so gently, Brock realised he’d only ever seen Winter so gentle to that damn duckling. 

Maybe that duck  _ had  _ been good for something if it had taught Winter how to be gentle. ...That, and to keep his metal hand away lest he accidentally hurt someone with it. Messier accidents had happened with that hand than just a bit of hair pulling. 

Brock groaned out his displeasure when more people came to join them. Fitz took the empty gap next to Skye, looking as uncomfortable and out of it as Winter often had. Mack, the asshole, just  _ had  _ to sit himself right next to Brock,  _ too fucking close,  _ and Brock’s fist thumping angrily into the arm rest was all the warning they needed for him to get off the couch and stomp furiously towards Winter.

The room had fallen dead silent, all eyes locked onto Brock as they watched him throw himself onto the armrest next to Winter and glare viciously at Mack as he did so. No one commented on it - probably the smartest move of the century, really. 

Brock pulled his phone from his pocket and busied himself with it so he could pretend he didn’t feel as uncomfortable and out of place as he did. He opened his text messages and went straight for Murphy’s number, typing out a lengthy essay about how fucking claustrophobic he felt every time the others so much as looked at him. 

_ You’re probably still adjusting and don’t know the pecking order yet,  _ Murphy offered. There was more to the message, but Brock couldn’t be assed reading all of it. Instead, he opened his web browser and searched for random newspaper articles to open and pretend he wasn’t sitting there feeling so  _ stuck  _ in his life. 

Brock must have zoned out well and truly, because when he came to at Winter’s voice, he was uncomfortably aware that everyone else had crowded around him during his mental blank. 

“Brock is looking at vibrators, Steve. Big vibrators. I think he wants one.” 

Brock’s jaw fell open so wide, it was a miracle his lower jaw wasn’t touching the ground. Steve’s stunned, uneasy response came through his own comm, and Brock wished he’d thrown the fuckers away instead of keeping them. “Uh… Buck…?”

“I am  _ not _ !” Brock snapped. He looked back down at his phone to see what article he’d clicked on in his daze. Triumphantly, he waved his phone around at all the bodies surrounding him to prove his innocence. “It’s a fuckin’ _ massage tool  _ that vibrates, assholes! Leave me alone!” 

Winter looked confused, like someone had tried to explain quantum physics to him. He tapped his comm before he whispered matter-of-factly, “See, Steve? He’s looking at vibrators.” 

There was uncomfortable laughter, more the result of no one knowing how to react to the situation. But Brock, who had long become used to ridicule, took it the wrong way. He lashed out. He shoved at the person closest to him, pushing them away with enough force to knock them to the ground. His mouth was open, and he was spewing words, but he could barely even hear himself over the anger.

The only thing that Brock really registered was Winter grabbing his wrists and keeping him from striking anyone else.

“Let go of me, Winter,” Brock snarled. Winter refused. Brock tried to pull his hands free, but he should have known there was no point in even trying to escape Winter’s grip. “I said  _ let go of me _ . That’s an  _ order,  _ Soldier!” 

Winter obeyed now, pulling away like he’d just realised he’d been touching a venomous snake. His eyes were hurt, shiny with unshed tears, and the pure look of betrayal on his face was enough to push Brock over the edge. Brock grabbed Winter by the shoulders and  _ shook  _ him, screaming so incoherently, he couldn’t even understand  _ himself _ . 

Winter didn’t try to defend himself; he sat there, placid and doll-like, allowing Brock to manhandle him like he were nothing more than a stray mutt on the street. It was when Brock raised his hand into the air and threatened to hit Winter did he finally give a reaction, but the frightened flinch he made wasn’t accompanied by any attempt at escaping the aggression. 

Brock came back to earth at this. His heart sunk as he realised what he had been about to do, and never had he wanted to die as much as he did right now. 

Brock left in a hurry, but he didn’t get far before he came crashing down to his knees and ripped at his hair in desperation. “Oh, fuck… Fuck fuck fuck…” 

The tears came hard, and Brock could do nothing more than curl in on himself and realise now the help he terribly needed. 

Footsteps approached. Brock didn’t even have the energy to look and see who it was, nor could he be bothered shaking off the hand that grabbed him by the shoulder. 

“If it makes you feel any better, nobody is going to judge you for what happened.” It was Coulson, and whether or not he was being sincere, Brock didn’t have the energy to doubt him. “None of us expected him to come out with something like that - but we know he didn’t know any better with what he said.” 

Brock shook his head. As much as he hated talking to people about his feelings, he couldn’t keep it inside much longer. “It’s fuckin’ stupid… I  _ know  _ he didn’t know any better… But I wanted to hit him for somethin’ he don’t even realise he did…”

“You didn’t hit him; you got control back over yourself,” Coulson promised. “Whatever anger you had in that moment, you didn’t let it get the best of you.” 

“Don’t tell me it’s okay that I raised my fuckin’ hand to him,” Brock muttered. “It’s  _ not  _ okay that I did that…” 

“It’s not,” Coulson agreed softly. “But like I said, you didn’t follow through with it.” 

Brock shook his head again. He forced himself to hold back his tears so he could force out, “He said somethin’ stupid ‘cause it was the only way he knew how to get it out… But all I could think was that he was being an asshole and doin’ it on purpose… ‘Cause people used to do that shit to me all the time, and I  _ know  _ I was bein’ stupid but all I could think was that he was being no different to the rest of them…” 

“He wasn’t; I could see it on his face, Rumlow...” Coulson whispered, “...he genuinely was confused why you reacted the way you did.” 

“And I was gonna fuckin’  _ hit  _ him for it…” Brock reached up to wipe tears away with the back of his hand. He choked on a sob before he grumbled, “And the stupid fucker would have let me hit him, too…” 

“He didn’t want you hitting anyone else. But he was willing to let you hit him…” Coulson frowned. “He doesn’t deserve to have that kind of conditioning, Rumlow; that’s so  _ wrong _ .” 

“Yeah, well…” Brock let out a shuddery breath, “...that’s HYDRA for ya…” 

“It’s not right. He deserves better.” 

“Oh, it’s always about fuckin’ Winter, isn’t it?” Brock couldn’t help but snap. “Oh, poor Bucky Barnes, World War Two hero and victim of HYDRA! Everyone feel sorry for Bucky! Everyone line up to suck his fuckin’ dick just ‘cause he was Captain America’s sidekick once upon a time!”

Coulson’s expression softened. “That’s not what I mean, Rumlow.” 

“Sure it is! Everyone fuckin’  _ worships _ the ground he walks on, and you  _ know  _ they do! But I’m out here on my own and they couldn’t give a  _ fuck _ ! Too fuckin’ busy making sure their precious fuckin’  _ Bucky  _ isn’t gonna start cryin’ again.” 

“His past doesn’t have anything to do with their attachments to him; they like him because he  _ approaches  _ them and  _ lets  _ them socialise him,” Coulson murmured. “I promise. They have respect for him for the things he did in the forties, Rumlow, and they understand that anything he’s done in the past seventy years wasn’t what  _ he  _ wanted. But they like him because he likes  _ them  _ and they’re  _ comfortable  _ with him, Rumlow. They don’t dislike you, but no matter how hard they try to be welcoming towards you like they are with James, you don’t let them. You push them away.” 

“Yeah, I fuckin’ push everyone away!” Brock snapped. Tears started streaming down his cheeks again, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop them. “I push everyone away and can’t fuckin’ admit the shit that’s wrong with me and that’s my whole fuckin’ problem! I push everyone away and then wonder why I’m alone! I keep pushin’ them away from me ‘cause I’m  _ scared  _ of gettin’ too close to people!” 

“No one here would ever want to hurt you,” Coulson promised. “Not one of them. You see the way they are with James. They go out of their way to make him feel comfortable with them. They love having him here, and all they want is for you to let them in, too. They don’t expect you to be best friends with them, but they trust you, Rumlow. They don’t want to feel like you’re an outsider.” 

“I need help…” Brock whimpered. He choked on a few more sobs as he pulled at his hair again. “Fucking hell, I need help…” 

“We’re willing to help you,” Coulson promised. “We’re willing to help you, but you have to at least  _ let  _ us help you.” 

“I can’t,” Brock whispered. His eyes were wide, showing his fear. “I  _ can’t _ . I haven’t let  _ anyone  _ help me before - I can’t fuckin’ start  _ now _ .” 

“You can. Right here and now. You can.” With that, Coulson stretched his arm out and wrapped it around Brock’s shoulders. He felt Brock tense beneath the touch and try to pull away, so he held on tighter until eventually, Brock’s body relaxed just that tiny bit, and he started leaning into the embrace instead. “You’ve got to remember that you’ve got people here now who care about you, Rumlow. No matter how distant you are.” 

“Why would they care about  _ me _ ? I’m  _ nothin’ _ . I’ve done such bad things all my life, and you lot are too fuckin’  _ good  _ to associate with someone like  _ me _ …” 

“Full disclosure, but…” Coulson trailed off as he considered how to go about his next words, “...when Steve first approached us, we… None of us were keen on bringing you or James here. We didn’t trust you - not after what HYDRA had done to  _ us _ . Fitz took it hardest when Steve asked us to take you both on. We kept declining Steve; we couldn’t go through it all again…” 

Brock felt so drained, so  _ exhausted  _ that he was sure he would soon collapse in a heap from how heavy his heart and mind felt. His voice was slurred with fatigue as he murmured, “So why are we here, Coulson…?” 

“Because everyone deserves a second chance, and Steve truly believed the two of you would make good on that,” was Coulson’s soft reply.

Brock’s eyes flickered lazily to meet Coulson’s. “And if we let you down and betray you....? What happens then?” 

“...” Coulson sighed. “Then we start again from the start until all that’s left in you both is the goodness we  _ can  _ see in you.” 

Brock snorted. “What goodness? What could  _ possibly  _ be so good about me that warrants me being here…?” 

“You protected James and cared for him when he couldn’t take care of himself. It wasn’t a small commitment - you’ll probably still be doing it for the rest of your life. Someone so full of trauma - mental and physical - who barely remembers how to be a person… And you haven’t given up on him, Rumlow. That’s more than good; that’s the kind of good in you that we want to foster and grow. You could do good things; you just need to be given the chance to do so.  _ That’s  _ why you’re here.  _ That’s  _ why we care about you.” 

Brock sighed. “I don’t want Wints put back on the field; he doesn’t deserve to go back into that kind of life. He’s done enough killing; he deserves to rest. As his former CO, I demand he be benched indefinitely.” 

“He’s benched, Rumlow,” Coulson swore. “We would never send him back into the field; he’s happy like this.” 

Brock sighed. He forced himself back to his feet, ignoring the way his knees creaked in protest at the movements. He’d have to go back to the gym soon, he knew; his body wasn’t liking his constant listlessness. “Hey… You got a gym on this stupid plane?” 

“Yes, and you are more than welcome to use it whenever you want to,” Coulson promised. “It might be a good idea to take James along and give him a spar to get some energy out of him.” 

Brock choked on a snort. The edges of his lips curled upwards in a playful smile as he scolded, “You think I’m  _ that  _ suicidal? You  _ seen  _ his fuckin’ metal arm? That shit  _ hurts _ when he smacks you with it.” 

Coulson returned the smile. “First hand experience?” 

“Yeah - fuckin’ guy gets overexcited and forgets his own strength. He almost took my head off last time I sparred with him - think the cleaners spent all night cleanin’ up the blood, and the dentist wasn’t very impressed with what he did to my mouth.” 

Coulson’s back slid down the wall as he relaxed further into Brock’s company. “Sometimes it’s easy to disbelief everything Steve told us about the Winter Soldier when we only know James.” 

Brock waved a dismissive hand. “They’re two separate people; Wints doesn’t have it in him to do what the Soldier can. Wints is sweet and gentle and  _ perfect _ .” 

“I think everyone can agree with that; he’s certainly charmed everyone here.” Coulson gave another smile. “Hey, are you up for an hour in the gym? The girls will take care of James.” 

Brock shrugged. “Why not? I need to hit something for a while.” 

Coulson got to his feet and led the way. “We can make this a daily thing if you want, Rumlow. Trip and Mack would join, too.” 

Brock hummed. He gave a nod, deciding that he would indeed like that.

And just like that, Brock didn’t feel so old and heavy. 

***

“Can we take Bucky shopping with us?” 

Brock stopped mid-punch and turned to face the doorway of the gym. He frowned, wiping sweat from his brow as he regarded the group crowded at the door. “Stop callin’ him that shit; he doesn’t like it.” 

“He doesn’t know what else he wants to be called,” Simmons explained gently. “He doesn’t mind.” 

Brock scrunched his face up before he forced himself to relax. He looked to Coulson at his side, comforted by the other’s sweaty, yet calming demeanour, before he looked back to the group to see Winter, tucked away at the back, but still towering over the others. “Yeah, that’s alright - but don’t take him too far; I dunno how well he’ll cope.” 

“We’ll look after him,” Trip promised. “We won’t let anything happen to him.” 

“It’s not him I’m worried about…” Brock’s lips twitched again with the ghost of amusement. He moved his eyes to fix on Winter’s form. “Wints, I’ve got my comm on, and so does Rogers. If you need anything, just tell us, okay?” 

From the back of the crowd, Winter nodded. He allowed himself to be guided away from the gym, out of the plane, and into the SHIELD SUV. He sat quietly for the drive, pressed against the back door with Fitz’s warm body against his side as they both stared out of the window. 

They stopped at a bookshop, and the strange familiarity of it all made Winter feel… 

He couldn’t explain the feelings inside of him; just that the act of being here was so intimately familiar to him, he felt as if he’d done it a million times before. 

_ Had  _ he done it before? Perhaps in the life Brock and Steve always told him he’d had before HYDRA. Not that Winter could remember that life. HYDRA had told him things that conflicted with what Brock and Steve said, and his own feelings on the matter felt different also. Maybe… 

Maybe Winter  _ did  _ know the act of being at a bookshop. 

“Are you coming inside, Bucky?” 

Winter startled slightly at the voice right next to his ear. He felt uneasy to realise that everyone else had already exited the car, and he’d been completely unaware of Skye opening the back door he’d been resting against to speak to him. 

Then again, things like this had been happening an awful lot lately; him losing track of time or not realising where he was or what was happening around him until it was too late.

But Winter wanted to be brave. He wanted to explore this new idea of bookshops and see where it led him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and gave a firm nod before he pulled himself from the SUV and stood on the sidewalk, waiting to be led inside.

Entering the bookshop was like coming home after a long,  _ long  _ draining day of being somewhere hated. Winter felt like he couldn’t breathe at all of the bookshelves scattered around the store. He wanted so badly to look, to touch the spines and  _ scrutinise,  _ but he knew he had to be patient; he had to wait for his handlers - no, these weren’t handlers… - to tell him it was okay.

“Hey, what books do you like, Bucky?” 

Winter flinched at the question. He didn’t know; he didn’t even know he’d  _ liked  _ books until now. His eyes aged him decades as he slowly reached up to tap at his earpiece and whisper, “Steve… What books do I like…?” 

There was an excitement in Steve’s voice as he listed book after book that did nothing to jog Winter’s memory. He relayed the titles back quietly to his new comrades, uncomfortable at the way they listened to his every word; was this really how people were  _ supposed  _ to have treated him…? 

“Oh, but you were halfway through reading  _ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn  _ before the train.” Steve’s tone was much gentler now, tender, as if he were afraid it would spark the wrong emotions or memories in Winter. “You really liked it; you kept telling me all about it, but you didn’t have enough time to finish it. I think you would have really loved to finish it, Buck…” 

Winter gave a soft whimper. He hesitated, but it didn’t take him long to still turn back to Simmons, gather up the courage, and whisper, “I want… to read…  _ A Tree Grows in Brooklyn _ …” 

Simmons’ mouth opened to reply. As an immediate frightening afterthought, Winter added quickly, “Please?” 

Simmons smiled so warmly, so  _ welcomingly  _ at Winter, Winter couldn’t help but smile back. Trip left the group to go immediately to the cashier and ask if they had the book in stock. By some miracle, they did. 

Winter didn’t understand why they bought him the book. He especially didn’t understand why they took him around the store and let him pick out what other books he wanted, never yelling at him because he asked for too many, or because he was taking too long to make a decision. 

But the most confusing part of all was the way he looked up at the clock behind the checkout desk and realised two hours had passed already. It hadn’t felt like two hours. In fact, the more Winter thought about it, the more he realised it felt like time wasn’t moving at all and he had to wonder if he was even  _ real _ . 

“Steve…?” Winter’s whimper was so quiet, so soft and scared and  _ sad,  _ everyone stopped and turned to face him. “Am I… Am I… dead…?” 

“No, Buck, of course not,” Steve murmured back over the comm. “Of course you’re not dead.” 

“I feel like I am,” Winter whispered back. “I don’t… I don’t feel real. Like nothing is real.” 

There was silence, both around Winter and over the telecoms. Winter had thought he’d done something wrong again until Brock’s heavy, depressed voice sounded in Winter’s right ear. “Tell those fucks I want them to bring you back, Wints…” 

Winter did as he was told, sad and quiet as he was taken back to the car and helped into the backseat. He stared out of the window on the way back to the plane, but Fitz, who was next to him again, grabbed his attention by picking up one of his books and tapping him on the flesh shoulder. 

“I’ve read this one,” Fitz said softly. He moved the book closer to Winter, showing him that it was the one Steve had told him he’d been halfway through reading. “It’s really good; I loved it.”

Winter licked his lips for a few moments before he murmured, “I want… to know more.” 

Fitz moved closer, telling Winter about the book, both of them relaxing more and more into each other’s company until they’d both fallen asleep, Fitz’s head on Winter’s shoulder and Winter dropping his own to rest his temple against it. 

From the other side of the car, Mack and Trip pulled out their phones and snapped away at the camera, not willing to forget the moment. 


	21. Chapter 21

Brock hadn’t realised just how adjusted he had become to a life without mission after mission after mission. Not until he’d been sitting in what he’d come to think of as the team hang-out room, tucked away on the sofa with his eyes watching Winter, and Coulson had gathered his team around to give the orders. 

Maybe Brock could have taken it better had Winter stayed where he was, sitting between Simmons’ legs with his feet tucked beneath him as he  _ purred  _ at the hairbrush running through his hair ever-so-gently. But instead, Winter got to his feet and, as if he truly thought he was one of Coulson’s SHIELD goons, he gathered around with the rest of them.

“Wints.” Brock waited until Winter was looking at him before he shook his head and murmured, “C’mere…” 

Winter did as he was told, climbing onto the couch and curling himself into a snug fit between Brock’s reclining body and the back of the couch. He nosed at Brock’s jaw, a quiet, barely audible question spilling from his lips with so much innocence, Brock felt sick. “Is he not my handler, Brock…?” 

Brock brushed stray locks of brown out of Winter’s closed eyes. “No, Wints. No one is. Not anymore.”

“But… Mission…?” Winter was confused now, Brock could tell from the slight quaver in his voice. 

“No. No more missions for you.” Brock kissed Winter’s forehead and wrapped an arm around him to hold him tight. “No more missions. Not ever again. Only rest.” 

“But…” Winter frowned. He opened his eyelids again and let his gaze fall on the group gathered on the other side of the room. He licked his lips before he looked back at Brock. “But they need me… What if they get hurt?”

“They’re not goin’ to get hurt; they can look after themselves,” Brock promised. 

Winter licked his lips again as his eyebrows furrowed. “...But… they need me…” 

“No. We stay out of their way, Wints; we don’t get involved.” Brock cupped Winter by the face, hoping his next words would calm him down. “We don’t… We don’t do missions anymore ‘cause… ‘Cause the bad guys will be looking for us. We stay here where it’s safe, and where no one knows where we are. Understand?” 

Winter nodded, but he didn’t look happy doing so. He sighed sadly before he dropped his head to hide his face against Brock’s shoulder. His voice was muffled by the fabric of Brock’s jacket, but still, he mumbled, “Don’t want them to get hurt, Brock…” 

“They won’t,” Brock promised. He moved his hand to rub at the small of Winter’s back, hoping it would help. He certainly hadn’t expected for Winter to get so attached - especially so quickly - but maybe that was a good thing? All of that electrocution certainly had fried Winter’s brain; there were very delicate parts of his mind that hadn’t worked properly for decades, but just being here with these people…

Well, Brock knew he wasn’t imagining the way Winter’s brain was healing, and he was relearning skills that had long-since been fried out of his brain.

Brock groaned softly at the pain in his neck. He rubbed at it, wincing at the lumps beneath his calloused fingertips. He was tired. So fuckin’ tired, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his eyes open much longer.

Soon enough, Brock’s mind shut off and soft snores escaped him. Winter laid where he was, watching with wide eyes as everyone started filing out of the room. Coulson stopped by the sofa and peered down at him with a warm smile and kind eyes. Winter couldn’t help but give a small smile back.

“James, you’ve got a very important job here,” Coulson promised, his voice gentle and calming. “We need you to stay and watch the plane for us, okay? Make sure nobody gets on. It’s very important.” 

Winter’s chest puffed out with pride. He gave a firm nod, his eyes resolute with purpose. He’d obey his order, and he’d make everyone proud of him. 

But once the plane had been vacated, and there was nobody left but Winter and Brock, the hours ticked by, and Winter felt that same tightness in his chest that Brock had once told him was anxiety. 

They were taking too long to come back. It had only been early morning when they’d left, and it was almost dinnertime. Brock was still asleep, barely moved an inch from where he’d dozed off on the sofa, but Winter was pacing the corridors with loud, agitated whines. 

Winter knew from past experience that if anyone were to see him pacing with such wild, rigid movements, they would fear him lashing out and beat him back into subdued submission. 

The time kept ticking away, and still, nobody returned. Winter’s head raced with uncontrollable thoughts about what could have happened, and his heart raced just as fast to match the anxiety levels. His hands were sweaty, clammy, and his forehead felt damp as he thought about what could happen if they had run into another enhanced individual.

Winter’s hands clenched so tightly, the nails of his flesh hand cut into his palm. They were too small, too fragile. If there were more enhanced people out there, they wouldn’t be able to protect themselves. He knew how easily he himself could tear through entire armies on his own - and what if there were  _ more than one _ ?

The vomit expelled itself from Winter’s mouth so forcefully, so unexpectedly, Winter doubled over. The more he thought about someone hurting his new… What were they, really? 

But the point was, Winter couldn’t let anything happen to them. He couldn’t stop thinking about losing them, and the vomit kept coming until there was nothing left in him to throw up. 

Winter had to do something, orders be damned. 

He rushed back to his bedroom, pulling his clothing from his body with enough strength to tear the fabric in half. He didn’t care; he went straight for the dresser and ripped the bottom drawer out so he could get the bag buried deep at the bottom.

Seeing their old tac gear did strange things to Winter. He felt like he was going to vomit again, and there was more than just the anxiety swimming inside of him - but he didn’t have time to think about what he was feeling; he pulled his old gear on, fumbling with the straps of his vest and struggling with the kneepads, but he didn’t want to wake Brock and get him to dress him, because he had to hurry before something happened to his new people. 

The second Winter had secured his goggles above his tactical mask, he left the room and went straight to the weaponry storage. He knew Brock didn’t want him going in there, and probably none of the others wanted him there, either, but he didn’t care if he would be punished for it; he needed to stock up and make sure that he was prepared to take down a T. rex if he had to. 

...But maybe Winter had overreacted, because he’d only gotten as far as lowering the hatch of the plane and jumping down to the solid ground before his name was called a short distance away. 

“O-ohhhh…” Winter let out a shaky breath as the tension inside of him deflated like a balloon at the sight of his new people, unharmed and smiling as they continued walking to him. 

Winter, who had once respected his weapons like an extension of himself and took meticulous care of them, dropped the rifle he had been holding to the ground. He took shaky steps towards them, his breathing heavy and his eyes becoming wet. 

“Sorry we’re late; we ran into a bit of difficulty.” Coulson was smiling at him, as warm and welcoming as ever, and Winter gave another shaky breath in response.

Winter stopped just in front of May, looking at her in disbelief, as if he had expected to never see her again. May, ever the stoic one of the group, watched him back, with far less emotion on her face than the others. 

But Winter, who didn’t know what had come over him, shot forward and wrapped both his arms around May in a hug so tight, it took him a few moments to realise that he may be hurting her. He loosened the grip a little as he dropped his face to May’s shoulder, his body heaving as he came down from the stress he had been under and realised maybe Brock  _ had  _ been right; they could take care of themselves, and maybe, if they ever  _ did  _ need him, they would tell him to help them. 

When Winter felt May’s arms wrap around him and return the embrace, strong enough for Winter to feel and soak in the touch and know that he was safe and protected, he closed his eyes and let out a peaceful sigh, finally feeling the last of the weight leaving him and allowing him to relax. 

Everybody’s eyes had left Winter and instead looked at May in shock at the way her hand stroked gently through Winter’s hair. May gave a playful smirk. “What? He’s cute. He’s like the child I never had.” 

Winter, oblivious to the commentary around him, just let out another sigh, relaxed and content as he snugged in closer and hoped May would never let go of him. 

***

Brock didn’t think he’d ever seen Winter so lively before. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realised he  _ definitely  _ wouldn’t have seen Winter so lively - not when he’d spent the last seventy years of his life in a freezer and being tortured and raped and experimented on whenever he wasn’t. 

Seeing the way Winter looked so happy, so  _ alive  _ as he sat at the dinner table next to Trip and listened to the stories being told to him about his time in the Howling Commandos… 

Brock realised that, even though his intentions had been good, perhaps he had been cruel to keep Winter locked away the way he had, with no chance to stimulate his mind and perhaps instead decay even further. 

But Winter… was doing  _ fantastic,  _ Brock could see. His eyes still held the old look to them, like Steve’s did - the eyes of men who had lived far too long - but the smile on his face, the way he vibrated with excitement at someone giving him attention that  _ didn’t hurt him _ … 

Maybe Steve really  _ had  _ known what he was doing when he had tracked SHIELD down. 

Brock kept his head low, trying to pretend he was more focused on his meal than anything else. He closed his eyes as he held the spoon to his lips, sipping slowly at the juice of his stew as he listened closely to everything that was being said over dinner. 

Brock looked back at Winter when he gave a soft whimper. He didn’t miss the way Winter tugged at Trip’s sleeve as he whispered, “What means…?” 

“Which word?” Trip had the patience of a fucking  _ angel  _ with Winter, Brock could see. He was so calm and patient and gentle with him, and more than once Brock had witnessed him helping Winter when his brain failed to formulate what he wanted his body to do. 

Winter frowned. He furrowed his eyebrows as he tried to form the word on his tongue. “Dis… combob…”

“Discombobulate,” Trip helped patiently. His smile never wavered. “Repeat after me, okay? What does discombobulate mean.” 

Winter licked his lips. Slowly, with uncertainty, he repeated the sentence. 

Trip reached out to pat Winter’s head. “Very good. It means that you’re confusing someone.”

Winter tried out the new word on his tongue again. When Trip praised him for a job well done, his smile was bright, so bright, and even a bit proud. Brock couldn’t help but smile as well. 

It was Simmons who sent Brock’s mood back to annoyed. “Rumlow, would you mind if I give him a health check-up after dinner?” 

It wasn’t the first time Simmons had asked Brock, and Brock was starting to learn that it wouldn’t be the last if he kept declining her. He didn’t know why she kept refusing to listen to Brock telling her that Winter was in decent enough health - sure, they had had to take him off his food again and feed him through the drips because he couldn’t hold anything down, but Brock knew Winter was in as good health as he could be for everything he’d been through. Why was Simmons insisting otherwise? 

Brock lowered his spoon to the table carefully before he looked at Simmons and asked, “Why? He’s fine.”

“I noticed he was walking funny when we came back,” Simmons explained. “He was walking like it was hurting him. And I  _ know  _ he has the super soldier serum and he isn’t  _ supposed  _ to be able to get sick, but that’s a knock-off serum and there’s no telling what turns his health could take compared to Captain America’s.” 

“Fine,” Brock growled, if only to get her to stop asking. “But I’m stayin’ there with him and watchin’ every little thing you do to him. Do anythin’ funny to him and I’ll know.” 

Brock wondered if he was doing the right thing by letting Simmons put her hands all over Winter. Winter had had check-ups before, but those techs were always rough and cruel to him, and if they did something to hurt him, they never cared - would Winter think he was being betrayed if he allowed Simmons near him? 

Maybe not, Brock realised - not if he trusted Simmons already. 

Brock didn’t like the laboratory Simmons had. It was cold and dark and it didn’t feel welcoming to him. But Winter didn’t seem to mind too much - if at all - because he was sitting quietly in the middle of the room, his eyes closed and body stiff in the examination chair. 

Brock wouldn’t have it.

“Let him sit on the bed instead of that stupid thing,” Brock growled. He wasn’t surprised at the tension immediately leaving Winter’s body when he was helped out of the chair and up to the hospital gurney instead. 

Brock stayed standing against the door to the lab, his arms folded against his chest as he leant on an angle. He watched like a hawk as Simmons stripped him of his shirt and checked all of his vitals. He hated the way her fingers ran against his skin, touching every little callous and imperfection to scrutinise it and make sure there would be no lasting effects. 

But in a way, maybe her wandering fingers were good, because as she pressed against Winter’s abdomen, Winter gave a soft grunt that sounded almost confused. 

Simmons looked up to study Winter’s facial expression. She pressed again. “Does it cause you pain for me to poke you here?” 

Winter frowned. His eyes were sad as he returned Simmons’ gaze. “I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know how to describe what it feels like?” Simmons tried gently.

At Winter’s increasingly distressed expression, Brock stepped in. “He doesn’t know what  _ pain  _ feels like - HYDRA made sure of that… He could be running half dead and he wouldn’t even notice…”

Simmons was sympathetic, Brock could tell, because she took a new angle to her question. “What does it feel like when I press there? Does it feel sharp? Stabbing?” 

“I don’t know,” Winter whispered again. 

It was Simmons’ turn to frown now. Knowing not to push, but also to keep Winter onboard with everything she was doing, she murmured, “I’m going to take a good look at your stomach soon, okay? But I want to make sure everything else is in good working order first.” 

Winter gave no response. Brock hated to think about how similar it was to every time he’d been examined by HYDRA techs. 

Simmons made her way down Winter’s body, touching everywhere as she went, until she got to his feet. She undid his boots and removed them, and though she didn’t find concern with his right foot, his left had her frowning. 

“Rumlow, have you ever noticed his foot swelling?” Simmons still had Winter’s foot in her hands, her thumb caressing his ankle tenderly. 

Brock nodded. “After some missions.” 

“Has he ever suffered trauma to his feet or legs before?” 

Brock shrugged. “Probably. I’ve worked with him for twenty years - never saw him really get hurt bad like that. Fuck knows what’s happened to him before I worked with him.” 

Simmons moved her hands along Winter’s foot, pressing and poking in places that only drew uncomfortable expressions from Winter. It was one place in particular, somewhere in the middle of his foot that she pressed on from the underside, and Winter  _ snarled _ . 

Brock moved to hold Winter back, but Winter didn’t do much more than jerk his foot from Simmons’ hold and give her an agitated look. Brock couldn’t really blame him; the poor guy was probably sick and tired of being poked and prodded like a strange creature washed up on the beach. 

“He’s gettin’ irritated,” Brock warned. “He don’t like it when people touch his sore spots.” 

“It must be very sore for him if he identifies that he doesn’t like it,” Simmons mused. “How high is his pain tolerance?” 

“Pretty fuckin’ high; I had him on a mission once and he didn’t even notice that he’d been shot until I checked him over.” 

“Poor thing. I’m going to take x rays of his foot and make sure there’s no break; there’s a lot of swelling.” 

Brock stayed back and watched Simmons take the x rays of Winter’s foot, looking at the results for all of two minutes before she requested both Brock’s and Winter’s permission to remove his tac pants and x ray his leg as well. Brock almost declined, but he was glad he had given the okay to go ahead when Simmons told him that most of Winter’s left leg and foot were broken, and probably had been for a very long time.

“Bullshit,” Brock argued. “I’ve seen him chase down people on that leg. If it were broken, I’d fuckin’ know - he wouldn’t be walkin’, and it’d be swollen like a motherfucker.” 

“If his pain tolerance is really that high - and he can’t recognise pain as he should - as well as everything HYDRA has done to him, it’s really not surprising he doesn’t even realise his leg is broken,” Simmons assured. She moved away from the x rays spread out across the counter so she could rummage through cupboards in search of medical tape. “I don’t want him walking on that leg - not until I know it’s healing. I don’t have anything to make him a cast, so as soon as I’m done with him, I want him taken to bed so his bones will hopefully repair correctly. As soon as we get a chance, I’ll have him taken to a hospital for a cast to be fitted.” 

Brock watched Simmons tape Winter’s foot to try and relieve some of the pressure. He couldn’t help but smirk at the ever-increasing annoyance on Winter’s face, laughing at the way he scrunched his nose as he scowled at Simmons like she was teasing him. “Ease up, Wints; she’s just helpin’ ya.” 

Winter turned his scowl to Brock now. A pout quickly replaced it as he gave a huff and said, “She’s making me go to bed. I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay up.” 

Brock laughed. Truly laughed as he realised just how much of a child Winter was acting like. He continued smirking as he teased back. “Nah, you got a bedtime, Wints. When you’re older you can stay up.” 

Winter scowled again. “Don’t want your old man bedtime.” 

Brock choked on laughter. Simmons snorted and tried not to laugh. 

“Hey, Steve, you there?” Brock tapped on his telecom, but Steve never responded. Probably busy, Brock figured. He turned his attention back to Winter. “You’re lucky Rogers turned his comm off; I was gonna tell him to make ya listen to your bedtime like a good little Winter.”

If Winter had anything to reply with, he kept it to himself so he could instead watch the way Simmons traced scars up his thighs and to the bottom of his underwear. 

“Hey!” Brock couldn’t help but snap. “What are you doin’ to him?! Keep your hands off!” 

Simmons quickly removed her hand and turned to face Brock. Regretfully, she murmured, “Those scars look like they were deep. They twisted into the inside of his thigh; I’m concerned about where they ended. Is it okay if I check beneath his underwear for any damage?”

“What the fuck kind of damage?!” 

“Well, if those scars keep going, it’s possible that they’re scarring his genitals as well,” Simmons explained. “If they’re scarred, it could lead to permanent problems - things such as him not being able to feel proper sensation on his genitals or any at all.” 

Brock raised an eyebrow, but he still didn’t trust her completely. “So you’re sayin’ he could fuck a girl and get no pleasure from it?” 

“Possibly, yes.”

“Well, it’s bullshit ‘cause I’ve given him orgas - I-I know for certain he can come.”

“Just because he can orgasm doesn’t mean he can  _ feel  _ what’s going on,” Simmons pointed out. “Do you mind if I check?” 

“Why the fuck are you so concerned about whether or not he can get off properly? You plannin’ on fuckin’ him or somethin’?” 

“No, of course not!” Simmons looked horrified by the suggestion. “I just… Well, if you and him… You know… I’d want him to be able to enjoy it… He’s got enough going on for him already.” 

“Whether or not he can feel good from gettin’ a fuck shouldn’t be of any concern to you,” Brock growled. “He’s  _ my  _ partner, and  _ I’ll  _ worry about if he can enjoy it or not.”

“I know… But…” Simmons took a deep breath, “...you should be concerned about him, too. It’s his  _ health,  _ Rumlow; he  _ deserves  _ to feel the same amount of pleasure as you.” 

Brock opened his mouth to argue, to tell Simmons that she was just being pushy and only cared about getting a few good gropes in on Winter - he’d seen it happen to Winter all the time in HYDRA; he’d never trust another person to not want to do the same - but before Brock could say what was on his mind, Winter gave a whimper and whispered, “Brock… I want… to feel good, too…” 

Brock frowned now. He was tender as he asked, “It doesn’t feel good for you when we kiss…?” 

Winter shook his head. “No feel… much…” 

Brock had an internal debate with himself now. Part of him wanted to tell Simmons to fuck off and stop trying to cop a feel. But the other half of him that truly cared about Winter and wanted only the best for him won out. “Fuckin’  _ fine _ . But if I see you fondlin’ his balls to be creepy wih him, I’m gonna fuckin’ know.” 

“I won’t. I promise. There’s someone else I’m interested in anyway,” Simmons explained. She left Winter’s side just long enough to fetch latex gloves, and when she returned, she gently pulled Winter’s underwear down by the sides so as to not touch anything private. 

As Simmons suspected, Winter’s genitals were scarred. Surely Brock would have noticed sooner the large scars covering his testicles, and the massive single scar that ran from the tip of his penis all the way to the base. 

Someone had made those cuts on purpose, Simmons knew, and the thought of it made Simmons  _ furious _ ; how could  _ anyone  _ want to harm such a sweet, gentle person? 

“Have you seen these scars before?” Simmons waved Brock over. 

Brock took just one look at Winter’s genitals before he winced and murmured, “Yeah… But I try block the shit out…”

“Give me your hand.” Simmons took Brock’s hand - to so much of his relief, there were no words to explain it - and guided it to Winter’s penis. She rubbed the tips of his fingers over the scarring as she asked, “Can you feel this?” 

Winter shook his head. Simmons guided Brock’s hand around his genitals, but whatever feeling he had was little. Brock was quickly losing hope that he’d be able to have a proper sexual relationship with Winter - fuckin’ hell, they barely even fucked at all, and  _ now _ … 

“It could also be psychological,” Simmons promised. “I have some cream that might help him with the scarring, and… Well, it might help with the intimacy if you… put it on him…” 

Brock hesitated to ask, but since it had been raised, he may as well voice his concerns. “If… If I have some problems…  _ down there,  _ too… Uhh… Can psychological stuff… be  _ fixed _ …?” 

If Simmons was judging Brock’s self admittance, she didn’t show it; instead, she seemed as warm and welcoming as ever as she exclaimed, “Of course! At the very least, it can get better. Do you want to talk about it with me? If you’re not comfortable… Well, maybe even talking to Bucky about it would be good for you both.” 

Brock felt ashamed at the thought of talking to Simmons about everything - but, at the same time, the idea of finally getting it all off his chest… 

Brock knew he would never be able to talk about it all so soon to someone, but after gathering up the courage, he murmured, “I, uh… I can’t always get it up, and sometimes I… I, erm… I can’t  _ finish _ … It’s why I don’t wanna do much with Wints - don’t wanna embarrass myself or disappoint him...” 

“Have you talked to him about this?” 

Brock shook his head. “Nah… I don’t even like  _ thinkin’  _ ‘bout it - I just… try and keep it blocked out and just not do anythin’ with him...  I didn’t think he minded…” 

Simmons reached out to take Brock by the shoulder and squeeze. Her smile was as gentle as always as she whispered, “I don’t think he’d care  _ at all _ ; I think… I really think that all he wants… is to  _ be  _ with someone. That’s all he wants.” 

Brock hesitated, thinking the words over. But finally he gave a nod of agreement. “Yeah… Yeah, I’ll… I’ll talk to him soon ‘bout it… I’m just… I’m gonna go grab a drink. Put his pants back on and finish up; I’ll come grab him in a sec.” 

Brock didn’t wait for Simmons to respond; he left, taking his time in returning so that he could sort through his thoughts on his own. He didn’t get very far, though; nothing was really making sense to him, so he went back to get Winter.

Simmons was finishing up. Talking about some sort of blockage or something in Winter’s stomach that she was going to have to work on tomorrow when she had time. Brock gave her a silent nod, gathered Winter up, and took him back to their room. Part of him wanted to stay up, explore some things with Winter. 

But really… If Brock was going to be able to work through his shit, he was going to need proper rest. With a silent plea to the gods who had never listened to him before, he closed his eyes and  _ begged  _ that Winter would, for once, sleep through the night as well. 


	22. Chapter 22

Winter wasn’t aggressive by nature, but seventy years with HYDRA had  _ definitely  _ left him with aggressive tendencies; like a feral dog that had never been socialised, Winter’s aggression was best described as fear-based. 

Even Brock didn’t really know about the aggression; Winter generally knew better than to rebel against his handlers, and the lesser HYDRA grunts never had anything to do with him unless it meant they could get a quick fuck out of him. 

But here and now, with HYDRA long behind them and Winter becoming more and more human, Winter’s alikeness to a wild animal just trying to survive was quickly becoming apparent. 

“Here, Wints; eat this while I’m gone.” Brock laid a bowl of honey oatmeal down on the dining table in front of Winter. He leant down to kiss Winter’s temple and murmur, “I’ll be back soon, okay? Tell me through the comm if you need me to give you your IV again.” 

Winter looked down at his bowl contemplatively. He didn’t throw up like he had been doing with food - Simmons had told him he shouldn’t get sick now that he had his stomach operated on and his insides all unblocked - but he also didn’t feel hungry; instead, a strange feeling he wasn’t accustomed to had him feeling like there was just no room inside his stomach for food. 

Maybe that was because of all the medication Simmons was now pumping into his body every day, Winter figured; he really had been feeling dulled down and  _ strange _ ever since he woke up from the operation. 

But still, Winter nodded and tilted his head back so he could take Brock’s lips in a kiss. 

Winter didn’t want to eat, but Brock kept watching him expectantly. He didn’t want to eat, but he knew that if he didn’t, Brock would be upset with him. Tentatively, he picked up the spoon and raised it shakily to his lips, taking in only a tiny amount of oatmeal. Brock gave a nod of approval before he made his way from the kitchen. 

Fitz came into the dining area shortly after Brock had left. Winter tensed. He tensed, and he didn’t know why; Fitz wasn’t doing anything but making his own food - definitely non-threatening, but still… Winter kept finding himself growing more and more on edge with every movement that was made. 

Fitz got too close to the table. Winter’s body went rigid, and his pupils dilated. His body hunched forward, hiding his breakfast from Fitz. But Fitz kept getting too close, and Winter  _ knew  _ his food would be taken from him if he didn’t protect it; too many things had been taken from him before for far less. 

Fitz was friendly. He had a personality similar to Winter’s - minus the whole ghost assassin and all; Fitz didn’t have it in him to harm a fly. But Fitz, who had been through his own trauma and brain damage, was still gentle natured; it was natural for him to approach Winter with a shy smile and give Winter’s hair a ruffle. Winter tolerated him, stiff and on edge as he waited for the inevitable moment Fitz would take his food from him. Fitz was going to take his food away because he’d been bad, and then Brock would be disappointed at him for not eating his food, and then he’d be even badder, and - 

Fitz’s mistake was reaching for the spoon when Winter dropped it by accident, all intention purely to give it back to him and let him keep eating his breakfast quietly. But Winter lunged, grabbing Fitz’s wrist with his metal hand and  _ squeezed _ . 

Fitz  _ screamed,  _ so loud and so  _ terrified  _ that it didn’t take long for the room to fill with panicked people to see what the commotion was about. 

Brock was the last one to enter, and when he saw Winter,  _ crushing  _ Fitz’s wrist in his grip as a look of pure ferality poured into his every feature, his whole world turned upside down. 

“Winter!” Brock joined the mass of bodies trying to separate the two, but no matter how many hands pulled at the metal fingers to try and pry them from fragile flesh, they didn’t come even close to loosening. Brock knew that if they didn’t get Winter off of Fitz soon, well... 

Well, the fact that Brock had resorted to hitting Winter in the face to try and stun him into letting go should have showed desperation enough to stop Winter now before something worse happened. 

Winter wasn’t letting go. If anything, his growling only got louder, more aggressive, and his grip tightened on Fitz’s wrist until Brock was sure his screams symbolised his wrist being crushed into dust. 

“Fuckin’ let go of him!” Brock roared. He brought his elbow into the fray, hitting Winter in the face over and over again with it as he tried to work out a plan on how to stop Winter. “Winter! Let him go!” 

Winter’s flesh arm swung out and smacked Skye and May away, their backs hitting the ground with heavy thumps. A strangled scream escaped Winter, agitated and scared and  _ confused _ . Brock had to look in his eyes for only a moment to see the pain and confusion in them and he came to realise that Winter didn’t know where he was or what was happening and all he was running on was pure instinct. 

Fitz kept screaming and writhing in his desperation to get away, and Brock wasn’t going to stand around and let Winter hurt him - perhaps he was growing soft in his old age, but he had become fond of Fitz and didn’t want to see him hurt. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Wints, you gotta let him go!” Brock shouted amidst his pitiful attempt at prying metal fingers from the now-blackened wrist. “You’re hurtin’ him! Let him -“

Brock’s back slammed into the wall with a sickening thud. His neck cracked loudly at the impact as it twisted dangerously into an obscene angle. He gave a yell, his world going black.

***

 When Brock came to, it was to the girls around him, holding him down by his shoulders and keeping his head held still. They were talking to him, telling him something, but he couldn’t follow; he was too busy watching the way May kept Winter’s head cradled against her chest, seemingly trying to keep him calm while Coulson ever-so-slowly reached out to take his food away from him. Winter was still growling as his eyes remained locked on Coulson, but his growls were much softer now, not frenzied like they were before. 

Brock tried to sit up, but the girls held him down. “Don’t move; he could have broken your neck, Rumlow!” 

Brock let out a loud groan. Dazed, he mumbled, “Where’s the kid…?” 

“Fitz is alright; Mack and Trip have him,” Simmons promised. “Now don’t move in case you hurt yourself more!” 

Brock was sure he should be in pain, but if he was, his brain couldn’t seem to register it properly. He groaned again, keeping his eyes closed as he felt gentle touches against his neck. He should have been relieved for them to tell him that his neck wasn’t broken, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but disappointment; it was going to be another of  _ those  _ days apparently, where Brock couldn’t stop throwing himself pity parties.

The fact that they put a neck brace on him only made Brock’s eyes well with tears of frustration and embarrassment, and he made a mental note to take it off and throw it away as soon as he was alone in his room again; he didn’t need it, and even if he did, well… 

Who fuckin’ cared  _ what  _ happened to him in the end, anyway.

“I’m sorry...” The words left Brock’s mouth, but he had no idea what he was even apologising for. “...I... I’m sorry...” 

“Did you know he would react like that?” Coulson didn’t sound mad, or judgemental, or anything Brock expected to hear. Instead, he just sounded... like he was trying to  _ understand _ . 

“No...” Brock let out a shaky breath as tears rolled down his cheek. He trailed off to instead lean into whoever’s hand was wiping his tears away from his cheeks. “He’s never...”

“He’s never been alone with food before,” May pointed out. “He’s always eaten with Rumlow close by. Maybe that set him off somehow.” 

Coulson nodded in agreement. “Rumlow, is it reasonable for me to assume that HYDRA would have taken everything off James?” 

“Yep… But that shouldn’t have set him off; he knows better.” Brock’s eyes narrowed at the subtle way Winter’s fingers lingered against his stomach, feather-light against the fresh wounds in his abdomen the surgery had left behind in its wake. It took Brock a moment, but then he realised. “You got him drugged up?” 

“Pain medication mostly, but he’s on a bit of a cocktail for -” 

“Well, that’s his fuckin’ problem,” Brock muttered. “Probably confusin’ the fuck outta him why he doesn’t feel right. I seen him on shit before; seen him when those cunts had him runnin’ on heroin and cocaine ‘cause he wasn’t aggressive enough for a mission or two. He don’t do well with shit bein’ pumped into him like that; tried havin’ him on antidepressants and he didn’t like it.”

“He’s not on anything like that; I would  _ never  _ give him those kinds of drugs!” Simmons pleaded. “He’s only on enough to keep him from hurting too much from the surgery!” 

“You’re confusin’ him ‘cause he don’t know why he’s  _ not  _ hurtin’,” Brock growled. “He don’t know why his body doesn’t feel right - and his mind’s probably too fuzzy to work out what’s goin’ on. He’s pro’ly too doped up to even know he isn’t with fuckin’  _ HYDRA. _ ”

“We don’t know for sure what’s set him off, Rumlow - only that something  _ has _ ,” Coulson explained. “For all we know, there’s a combination of things that have upset him.” 

Brock flinched. His heart started racing, anxiety crashing over him like a cement truck. He frowned, and in the most fearful tone he’d allowed himself to be heard using, he murmured, “You’re gonna get rid of us now, aren’t ya…? ‘Cause Wints is too much of a liability to keep ‘round… He’s a tickin’ time bomb; better get rid of him before he kills someone…” 

“We would  _ never _ ,” Coulson promised. “Everything that has been done to him… We’d have been surprised if he  _ never  _ lashed out, Rumlow. If he never lashed out, well… something inside of him probably  _ was  _ broken, but… He’s not. He’s  _ healing.  _ He gave a human response for his trauma, and he’s been calmed down. He’s damaged, but he can  _ heal,  _ Rumlow. So can you. And we aren’t taking away the chances we gave you both for that to happen.” 

“I don’t deserve that treatment,” Brock mumbled. “I don’t deserve  _ any  _ niceties. And Wints… You should be fuckin’  _ scared  _ of him and what he’s capable of!” 

“But we aren’t because he’s only human, and he’s been through a lot,” Coulson reminded. “I only ask that he stays with us for the rest of the day so we can work with him - but we are not  _ abandoning  _ him, Rumlow. We  _ aren’t _ .” 

Brock closed his eyes. With a heavy sigh, he whispered, “Thank you…” 

“You’re welcome, Rumlow,” Coulson promised. “Now go get some rest; we don’t want your neck to be hurt worse.” 

Brock didn’t fight the girls as they helped him to his feet and escorted him out of the room and down the hall. He went along peacefully, his eyes closed and his hand rubbing at the brace they’d put around his neck earlier. 

But before they reached his room, he stopped, opened his eyes, and murmured, “I wanna go see the kid before I… I want to see the kid first.” 

If Simmons or Skye had any doubts about Brock’s request, they didn’t voice them; instead, they turned the corner of the corridor just before Brock’s room and took him to Fitz’s. Skye knocked gently on the door, but Brock felt sick at the way he could still hear Fitz crying his heart out, Trip and Mack talking gently to him to try and calm him. 

“He okay?” Brock asked the girls before the door opened. 

Simmons gave a stiff nod. She looked uncomfortable, fidgeting slightly before murmuring, “He’ll be okay, Rumlow…” 

Brock felt like an asshole. He knew that he shouldn’t; knew that he couldn’t have predicted Winter doing this when he’d seemed to have been doing so well, but the part that was always hard on himself kept screaming that he  _ should have done better _ . 

But Brock… All Brock could do was take a seat on the bed next to Fitz, wrap one arm around the kid’s shoulders, and massage the broken wrist so tenderly, Fitz kept staring at him with wide, frightened eyes as he cried. 

“Shh… I used to rub Winter’s wrist like this whenever he broke it… Shh…” Brock felt uncomfortable with all of the eyes on him, but it didn’t stop him; Fitz was hurt, and Brock felt like it was  _ his  _ fault. 

But somewhere, in the back of Brock’s mind, he knew he would still be in this room, comforting Fitz, even if it hadn’t been Winter to do this to him. 

“C’mere…” And with that thought, Brock pulled Fitz tight against him and dropped his face into curly hair, holding him until he stopped crying. 

***

Winter gave a soft sigh of contentment at the fingers dragging through his hair. He let his eyes slip closed again, a whine of pleasure escaping his lips as he nuzzled his face closer into May’s stomach. He curled up, lying on his side in a position anyone else would have found uncomfortable to be stretched out across three sets of chairs, but Winter wasn’t bothered in the least - not when it meant May would keep playing with his hair and rubbing his scalp. 

He kept dozing off, calmed by the quiet of the cockpit and the safety it provided. He would awake every now and then, stretching out like a lazy housecat before going back to sleep. 

When Coulson and Simmons arrived, Winter was more alert, but he wouldn’t move from May’s lap - not when her fingers were working double time against his scalp, and he felt far too blissed out to end it so soon. 

“How has he been, May?” Coulson stayed in the doorway, letting Simmons go in to attend to Winter. “Is he doing better?” 

May nodded. “He’s just been sleeping.” 

“Sit up for me, Bucky. That’s it; good boy.” Simmons helped Winter upright, guiding him by the shoulder. She waited for him to finish yawning before she smiled and showed him the syringes she had brought with her. “Just going to look at your stomach and make sure you didn’t hurt it today, then I’ll fix you right up with some more painkillers.” 

Winter wasn’t oblivious to the lack of IV that usually accompanied the syringes, the two that she would put into his stomach and nostrils. He also noticed there was one less syringe today. He looked questioningly at Simmons. 

Simmons must have understood the unspoken question because she gave another smile and murmured, “I had a talk with Rumlow earlier, and he asked for me to stop giving you some of the medication.” 

Winter hummed. He sat placidly as Simmons lifted his shirt from his stomach to check his bandages. He looked down also, stoic at the blood he hadn’t even noticed soaking through them. Now that Simmons was unwrapping him, he became acutely aware of the uncomfortable feeling deep in his abdomen. 

“No…” Winter frowned and pulled away from Simmons’ fingers. “Don’t like…” 

“What don’t you like?” Simmons stilled her hand, waiting for an answer. 

“Feels… not right.” Winter’s eyebrows furrowed. He shook his head. “Not right. Don’t like.” 

“Inside?” Simmons pressed the tips of her fingers lightly against Winter’s abdomen. “It doesn’t feel right inside?” 

Winter nodded. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he tried to find the right way to express himself, but instead, all he could do was fall silent again. 

“It must be hurting you,” Simmons explained. She raised the syringes to show him again. “But this is what all of these help with, Bucky. Your leg, for example… That must have been hurting you for a very long time. Doesn’t it feel better now that your leg is healing?” 

Winter looked down at the leg in question. He hummed thoughtfully as he bent his knee, admiring the way it felt so different, so  _ better  _ that he could move it and put his weight onto it. He looked back at Simmons and nodded. “Yes. Better.” 

Simmons took Winter’s hand and turned it to expose his wrist. She uncapped the first syringe and injected fluids, talking to Winter as she did so to keep him distracted. “Do you remember how you broke your leg?” 

Winter shook his head. He licked his lips and whispered, “Always broken.” 

“You’re very lucky that we could save it, Bucky; anyone else and it would have been unsavable. But the bones have reset nicely and hopefully you’ll be able to walk on it properly again soon.” 

Winter’s eyes fluttered closed at the skin-on-skin touch of Simmons re-wrapping his abdomen and rubbing his head as she did so. He let out a shuddery sigh, leaning into the contact, his breathing picking up as his skin prickled pleasantly. 

A whimper escaped Winter’s lips. He arched into the touch and moaned, his entire body shuddering as his skin tingled addictively. 

The room fell still and silent, broken only by Simmons pulling her hand from him with an uncomfortable clearing of her throat. Winter cracked open an eyelid to peer at Simmons with a look that shouldn’t be as lustful as it was. He followed everyone’s gaze, peering down to see what they were all looking at. 

The bulge in Winter’s pants was as much a surprise to him as it was to everyone else. 

Winter licked his lips and avoided eye contact. His hands fumbled with each other, but no words spilled from his lips; not when he was afraid he was going to be punished. 

The room was still silent. Eyes were still fixed on Winter’s lap, and Winter  _ knew  _ he was making it worse for himself when he moved his flesh hand to his lap and pushed against his erection to try and hide it from their sights. 

“I’m… gonna go check on Fitz.” Winter felt like he was going to cry at how uncomfortable Simmons sounded. 

Simmons left, and Winter was sure May would have abandoned him too if she wasn’t stuck piloting the plane. Coulson was the one to approach him and help him to his feet, letting Winter lean against him for support with his broken leg. 

Winter gave a soft sob before he whispered, “In trouble again…?” 

“No, you’re not in trouble,” Coulson promised softly. “Just… Maybe we should take you back to your room for a rest, hey?” 

“Not tired…” Winter sniffed. He shook his head. “Not… Not tired…”

“I know, but… May wants to be alone, James. Don’t you want to spend time with Rumlow?” 

Winter opened his mouth to reply, but he stopped when he heard sound come through on his telecomm; Steve had been strangely absent that morning, but he must have finally come back. He looked at Coulson, trying to gather courage before whispering, “I want… I want to talk to Steve…” 

“Of course you can talk to Steve, but I’ve got… things to do in here.” May was as gentle as Coulson was, maybe more so - but like Coulson, they didn’t know what was going through Winter’s mind, and he’d already been unpredictable today…

“But not with Brock.” Winter flinched at his own request, but still, he continued on. “Not… with Brock… Only Steve. Winter - I… In trouble.” 

“I’m sure you’re not in trouble,” Coulson promised. “Why are you worried you are?” 

“...” Winter looked to his lap. “...Brock not like me with other people…” 

“I’m sure he will understand.” Coulson had his hand on Winter’s shoulder, helping him exit the cockpit and walk through the hallway. “Did you mean for it to happen?” 

Winter shook his head. “No…” 

“Then he should understand; these things happen sometimes, James.”

“Steve…?” Winter whispered into the telecomm, hoping that Steve would have put it back into his ear by now, but alas, only silence greeted him. “Steve…!” 

Coulson couldn’t help but feel his heart break at Winter’s distressed cries. From the wail of despair Winter made, he figured that Steve must not have donned his earpiece just yet. He gave a soft suggestion, hoping that it would help calm Winter. “How about I take you back to your room, and then once Steve is back, you can go out and sit wherever you like and talk to him? Would you like that, James?” 

Winter didn’t reply directly, but the sob he gave told Coulson he probably wasn’t happy about it. Regardless, Winter allowed himself to be taken back to his room, sat down on his bed, and listened to the quiet conversation Brock and Coulson held about what had happened. 

Brock looked mad, Winter thought. He sobbed again, his shoulders bunching together as he braced himself for punishment. But when Coulson left, all Brock did was approach the bed and put his hand on Winter’s flesh shoulder.

“So, uh…” Brock cleared his throat as his eyes darted to the side. “You wanna tell me what happened…?” 

Winter shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping with everything he had that if he couldn’t see Brock, Brock couldn’t see him. “...” 

Brock sighed. He paced side-to-side for a few moments before he stopped in front of Winter again and watched him carefully. He shook his head, and in a tone hardened from hurt and insecurity, he gruffed, “You know I don’t like it when you get hard for someone who isn’t  _ me,  _ right…?” 

Winter kept his eyes shut as he nodded quickly. His hands clenched into fists against his knees, his body starting to shake as he waited for the moment Brock punished him. “...” 

“Am I not good enough for you, Wints…? You don’t… You don’t want  _ me  _ now…? Is that it…?” 

Winter let out a whimper as he shook his head now. His eyelids never cracked open an inch as he whispered, “Don’t know what happened…” 

“You got  _ hard  _ for someone who isn’t  _ me  _ is  _ what happened _ ,” Brock growled. He threw his hands up in the air as desperation overwhelmed him. “Y’know what? Fine.  _ Fine _ ! If you don’t want me anymore, just  _ tell  _ me, Wints! If you want those girls now,  _ fine _ . They’re a lot better lookin’ than I am, and they’re young enough for ya, too. I know you don’t want an ugly old man like me - I should have known better than to think you could  _ ever  _ have wanted me, Wints…” 

“Brock, I -” Winter flinched at Brock’s growl. He looked to his lap, hoping that if he made himself look small enough, Brock would forget he was there. 

“No!” Brock snapped. “Just… Just don’t worry ‘bout it! I get it! Why’d you want  _ me  _ when you got two pretty, young girls instead? If you want them instead, tell me now, Wints! Don’t lead me on!” 

Winter remained still and silent for so long, Brock gave up on hoping for an answer. But finally, Winter rose from the bed and dragged his plastered leg across the floor so he could exit the room. Brock watched him go, fighting back tears. 

But really, as hurt and jealous as Brock was, he  _ did  _ understand; Winter would be better off with anyone but him, where he could be taken care of emotionally and sexually - and wasn’t dragged down by Brock’s shit. 

...But maybe Brock was more selfish than he’d thought, because he couldn’t find it in him to let go of Winter - not to  _ anyone _ . 

***

“Steve…” Winter’s back slid down the corridor wall. His cheeks were damp from tears, but he wasn’t quite crying; not now that Steve’s voice could be heard through his earpiece.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” Steve’s tone was gentle, comforting, exactly what Winter needed to hear at that moment. 

“I made Brock mad…” Winter whispered. The corridor was deserted, making him feel more comfortable in opening up to Steve. 

“What happened?” Steve’s gentleness never left. 

“Winter was bad.” Winter sniffed. “Bad Winter. Made Brock mad.” 

“What did you do?” If there were anyone around to overhear the conversation, they probably would have thought that Steve deserved a medal for his patience. 

Winter sniffed again. “Got hard…” 

“Bucky…” Steve sounded so sad now. “Bucky, you weren’t bad for that… Why would you think you were?” 

“Brock was mad…”

“Are you sure, Buck? He shouldn’t be mad over that,” Steve promised. “Maybe there was a misunderstanding.” 

“No, he was mad because I got hard for someone else!” Winter wailed. “Winter is so bad, Steve…!” 

Steve expected for Brock to speak up over the telecoms, but he never did; he must have taken his own earpiece out at some point for whatever reason; Steve still couldn’t quite work out where Brock stood on such important matters. “What do you mean, Buck?” 

Winter sniffed back tears. “I… I don’t know…” 

“You got hard?” 

“Yes…” 

“For someone who wasn’t Rumlow?” 

“Yes…” 

“Who was it?” 

Winter whimpered and shook his head, not wanting for Steve to yell at him, too. “...” 

“Bucky…” Steve gave a heavy sigh. He was silent for a few moments as he tried to decide a better way to go about this. Finally, he asked gently, “What happened for you to get hard?” 

Winter choked on a sob before he whimpered, “S-she t-touched Wint - T-touched me…” 

“On your penis?” 

Winter shook his head. His tears were coming hard now, bawling his eyes out as his body started to tremble violently. “M-my hair… S-she played with my hair…” 

Steve couldn’t help it. He laughed loudly, full of relief and understanding. But still, Winter couldn’t help but flinch. “Buck… You’re not in trouble. Don’t listen to Rumlow; it was a misunderstanding.” 

Winter sniffed. “Winter bad…” 

“Not bad, Buck. I promise. Touch-starved.” 

“Touch-starved…?” Winter reached up to wipe his tears away with the back of his flesh hand. 

“Yes. That’s all it is. You’re just desperate to be touched gently -  _ affectionately _ . There’s nothing wrong with you getting hard over it, Buck; it only means you feel comfortable and  _ safe _ with them being affectionate to you.” 

“So why Brock mad…?” 

“He must have misunderstood, but I promise it’s okay; I’ll talk to him,” Steve promised. “It’s  _ okay  _ to get hard, Buck. I… I get hard… It’s normal.” 

“I not get hard…” Winter sighed. “I not… get hard…” 

“Yes, you do; I’ve seen you,” Steve affirmed. “Remember? I tried to help you with it. I know you don’t get hard much… Rumlow’s told me you can’t get hard on your own, but that must be changing now. It’s a  _ good  _ thing, Buck - I  _ promise _ .” 

Winter frowned. He looked down at his lap, finding all evidence of his erection gone. He wiped at his eyes before he murmured, “Steve gets hard…?” 

“Yes, Buck. When I think of you, I do.” Steve hoped he wasn’t treading dangerous waters revealing this, but if it could help Winter… “When I get hard, it’s because I think of how much I love you.” 

Winter was silent for a few moments before he whispered, “What happens when you get hard, Steve…?” 

“I masturbate.” 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s where I touch myself until I have an orgasm. A long time ago we used to do it together, but… I know you wouldn’t have done it for years…”

“It’s meant to feel good…?” 

If Winter was going off vague memories, or something he had learnt somewhere, Steve wasn’t sure - but really, wasn’t it a good thing that Winter could acknowledge this? “Yes, it feels  _ very  _ good. I used… to make you feel good, Buck…” 

“How?” 

“Well, we’d lay in the bed together and just… We’d  _ touch  _ each other. Before I had the serum, I was too small and sickly for us to have sex, so we’d use our hands and our mouths on each other. I would stroke you between your legs, and sometimes I’d suck on your…” 

“Brock does that to me, Steve.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Winter took so long to answer, Steve had almost thought he wouldn’t. But finally, Winter murmured, “I don’t know… I thought… I did… But now, I… It doesn’t really… Winter - I-I don’t… feel much…” 

“That’s okay, Buck. After everything that happened, we just have to build you back up to it feeling good. You used to feel  _ very  _ good, and I’d love to do those things with you again. We could… try some stuff now if you want…” 

“Stuff…?” 

“Yes. Just… Stuff. Over the comms. Make each other feel good. Do you want to try it?” 

“Feel good…?” 

“Yes.” 

Winter gave a wistful sigh. “Winter - I tell Brock I want to feel good, too…” 

“Then you’re going to feel good, Buck,” Steve promised. “I love you, and all I want is for you to feel good.” 

“I want to feel good,” Winter repeated, more firmly this time. His next sentence was spoken so adamantly, Steve’s heart swelled with love at just how much he was reminded of the James Barnes from the nineteen-hundreds. “Make me feel good, Steve. I want it.” 

Steve couldn’t say no to those words. On the other end of the comm, he dropped his hand to his lap and stroked idly, closing his eyes and recalling happier times with his precious Bucky. He held back a soft moan at the image of Bucky, on his hands and knees and crying out deliciously at the way Steve’s tongue probed at his entrance. “I’ll make you feel good, Buck. I always have.”

Winter whimpered at how hot and heavy those words sounded, so full of sincerity, Winter couldn’t help but feel anxious for reasons he couldn’t understand.

Steve let out a blissful sigh as he unzipped his jeans and kicked them off his legs. He pushed his boxers down as well, freeing his arousal so he could take it in hand and stroke slowly. “It’s okay, Bucky, you don’t have to be scared.” 

Winter didn’t know if the problem was more of what Steve wanted him to do, or if it was because Winter  _ didn’t  _ know what to do. “Steve… What do…?” 

Steve chuckled. Gently, he murmured, “Just touch yourself, Buck. Make it feel good.” 

Winter frowned down at his lap. He contemplated doing as he was told, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure if he should; faint memories lingered on the very edges of his mind, blurred and far out of focus, but clear enough for his heart to race and his stomach to twist anxiously at the idea that he may have tried doing this before, only to be punished. 

...But Steve wasn’t HYDRA, and Steve had never punished Winter before… 

Winter wrapped his flesh fingers around his softness. He peered down at it with uncertainty, just trying to get a feel for how he felt about such an action. “Steve… Now what…?” 

“Stroke it,” Steve murmured, his own hand gathering speed along his arousal. He bit back a moan at the picture in his mind of Winter doing the same thing. “Fuck… Bucky, you must look so beautiful right now… I wish I could see you.” 

Winter gave a soft gasp of surprise as his cock twitched with interest. He tightened his fingers around it experimentally, seeing if it would do it again, but it didn’t. He felt just that tiny bit breathless as he whispered, “Keep talking to me, Steve?” 

“Of course.” Steve gave a shuddery moan. “You taught me how to masturbate, Buck. All those years ago…” 

“Is okay…? Ooohh… Steve, is okay…?” Winter squeezed his eyes shut tight as his cock twitched again, trying to get hard, but finding it difficult with the way his metal hand shot out to grasp the base of his cock so tightly, it  _ hurt _ . He wasn’t supposed to get hard, he knew - not without explicit orders from his handlers that it was okay because he was being  _ rewarded _ . 

“Of course it’s okay,” Steve promised. “Don’t fight it, Buck. Just let it happen. It’s okay. If you’re alone, it’s okay to just enjoy yourself…” 

Winter trusted Steve. Truthfully, sometimes it was hard for him to distinguish Steve from a handler. But regardless, he trusted Steve, and if Steve said it was okay… 

Winter pulled his metal hand away and tucked it behind his back. He slid his thumb along the top of his arousal, up to the tip and tracing scars as he went. He didn’t feel much, though - not until the tips of his fingers brushed along a spot on the underside of his cock that had his spine arching and a soft cry escaping his lips. 

“That’s it…” Steve purred. “That’s it, Buck. Just like that…” 

Winter touched the same spot again to see if it felt the same, but this time, he added the pads of his fingers into the mix. He groaned loudly, his spine arching again and his hips thrusting forward without his conscious thought. “Steve…!” 

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve promised. “You’re allowed. I  _ promise _ .” 

It was like an addiction had come over him at those words. Winter rubbed feverishly at the spot, his forehead getting sweaty and his breaths now harsh pants. His hips kept rocking into the touch, searching for something Winter was not yet able to comprehend  _ what _ . 

“Fuck…” Steve was still talking, his own stuttered breaths deafening in Winter’s ear. “Buck…!” 

Winter gave a choked cry as weak spurts of hot liquid dribbled from his arousal. His fingers felt wet and sticky, but it barely registered in his mind; he was too busy focusing on the sounds Steve made during his own orgasm. 

Absent-mindedly, Winter brushed his sticky fingers against his shirt, wiping most, but not all of it onto the fabric instead. He tried to speak, to say something to Steve, but his head was too foggy, and his breathing refused to settle. 

For the first time in so long, Winter was aware of the fact that he just sat in silence for so long, the clock ticked by. 

***

Winter didn’t understand why the living room fell silent at his approach. He didn’t understand the uncomfortable looks or cleared throats that were made, nor did it make any sense for May to have come to him and, without a single word, wiped his hands with wet wipes and then requested for him to go to his room and change into clean clothing. 

Winter obeyed the request, although he didn’t understand it, leaving Brock alone with everyone to direct their uneasy looks onto him instead.

Brock cleared his throat and avoided all eye-contact, instead staring at the wall as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. “Don’t look at me;  _ I  _ didn’t tell him to wander ‘round in public with cum all over his clothes…” 

They must have realised that Brock was just as uncomfortable as everyone else, because they quickly left him alone to the TV program he had been watching. 

But Brock couldn’t get the event out of his head, couldn’t stop wondering what had happened for Winter to have been walking around looking as if he’d gone swimming in a pool of semen. Winter didn’t masturbate, and Brock had seen him jerked off - fuck,  _ he’d  _ jerked Winter off enough to know that for Winter to be wearing so much semen, it hadn’t been a once or twice session, whatever it was he had been doing. 

It was enough for Brock to wait for the rest of the crowd to slowly file out over time so he could corner Simmons and say, “I want you to hit on Wints for me.” 

“Excuse me?!” Simmons’ eyes were wide, and there was a hint of fear in them, as if she was expecting clarification of the request to mean something much worse. 

“You heard me,” Brock gruffed. “He got the hots for ya, and I don’t like that. I just wanna see if he’ll fuck you.” 

“You can’t possibly -” 

“- I’m not askin’ you to  _ fuck  _ him,” Brock growled with disdain. 

“Oh, great, that  _ really  _ clears things up!” Simmons snarked back. “I only thought you were going to ask me to let him have sex with me!” 

“Nah, I’m not into that stuff,” Brock promised. “I just… He got the hots for you; I just… Wanna see how far he’ll go if he gets horny for someone…” 

“And if he  _ does _ want to have sex with me?!” Simmons snapped. 

“Don’t let him, obviously. ...But…” Brock trailed off, and for the first time since the confrontation, Simmons became acutely aware of just how uncomfortable Brock seemed to be right now. “...Uh… If he doesn’t wanna fuck ya… Just… Just, umm… Don’t back off him ‘til he  _ says  _ he don’t wanna…” 

“I’m not pressuring him into sex! Especially if he doesn’t want it!” 

“Not askin’ for that. Askin’ for ya to help him learn he’s allowed to say no.” Brock chewed at the inside of his cheek. “See, he… He’s been raped.  _ A lot _ . He don’t know he’s allowed to say no. If he  _ does  _ wanna fuck ya, well… But if he doesn’t… I want him to learn no, too…” 

“That’s a lot to ask me, Rumlow - things I’m not comfortable with…” 

“ _ I’m  _ not comfortable  _ askin’! _ ” Brock snapped back. “If you don’t wanna do it,  _ fine _ . I’m not the type of guy to force people into sex… But I… I was hopin’ you’d understand  _ why  _ I asked…” 

“I don’t have any feelings like that for Bucky, and I’m sorry, Rumlow, but that’s not fair to either of us to do to him,” Simmons explained slowly,  _ kindly _ . “At the end of the day, I don’t think he became aroused because he  _ wants  _ to have sex; I think all it was was a comfort thing, Rumlow - but still, that’s not exactly something I’m comfortable with happening to me!” 

“You don’t think he wants sex?” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“Then how do you explain what he walked in like?” 

“It’s possible his brain is healing enough that he’s now capable of relearning his body and its needs, Rumlow - but that’s something  _ you  _ should be helping him learn. We’re not… No.” 

“You can’t at least help him learn to say no?” Brock’s fists clenched. He didn’t miss the way Simmons’ face softened at the question. “‘Cause that’s somethin’ I can’t teach him on my own - not after HYDRA…”

Simmons was silent for so long, Brock almost gave up and walked away. But finally, she nodded and whispered, “I’ll think about it, Rumlow.” 

And with that, Simmons was gone. 


	23. Chapter 23

Brock snapped awake when something hit him in the side of his ribs. He didn’t move, forcing himself to stay statue still and assess the danger. 

Winter’s heavy pants next to him, and the rhythmic rustling of the bed sheets, told Brock everything, and all he could do was let out an annoyed sigh and close his eyes again to try and fall back asleep; like  _ fuck  _ was Brock waking up at three-eighteen am just because Winter was horny. 

Winter stopped soon enough, Brock fucking  _ pleased  _ at the way Winter’s body tensed and then fell still; with a bit of luck, Winter would go back to sleep now and let Brock rest as well. But just as Brock started dosing off, Winter started again. 

Brock tried to ignore it. He tried so desperately to fall asleep, and he probably could have succeeded through sheer will alone - but that was  _ before  _ Winter’s hand settled on his stomach and rubbed slowly. 

Brock grunted in annoyance, but he otherwise gave no reaction. He stayed still and ignored the way Winter pulled the pillow out from under Brock’s head to place under his hips and hump at like an over-enthusiastic, unneutered dog. He grit his teeth when Winter gave up on that and instead rolled onto his side to grind his hips against Brock’s thigh, but still he said nothing, not wanting to discourage Winter any more from sex than he already had been.

But when Winter moved his hand down Brock’s stomach to rest instead against his groin, Brock couldn’t help but give a yell and elbow Winter in the ribs. “Hands off! You don’t fuckin’ touch me unless you  _ ask! _ ” 

Winter recoiled so quickly, he almost rolled himself off the bed. He fell still, his body stiff as a board as he waited for the inevitable punishment. 

Brock knew he’d been harsh, but  _ fucking hell  _ he  _ hated  _ people just grabbing his cock like that. He wasn’t any gentler as he growled, “Fuckin’ touch my dick without my permission again and I’ll -” 

Winter’s frightened whimper cut Brock off. Brock knew he had to calm down; Winter truly didn’t understand that he’d done something wrong, and all it would take would be a few harsh words from Brock to put him off sex for the rest of his life.

Brock took a deep breath and counted to ten before he forced out,  _ much  _ more kindly, “You don’t… touch someone like that without their consent, Wints… You didn’t like anyone forcin’ their hands down your pants, did you? ‘Cause I don’t either, Wints. I’ve… People have done that to me, too, so… So I don’t like people forcin’ themselves on me.” 

Winter forced his eyes to meet Brock’s through the darkness of their bedroom. Hesitantly, he murmured, “Brock understands…?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Brock cleared his throat uncomfortably. As much as he didn’t want to be talking about this with Winter, he knew he had to. “Winter, I do. I’ve… People did to me what HYDRA did to you for the first half of my life - held me down and fucked me ‘til I was cryin’ and bleedin’... My foster family - they… They…” 

Winter remained patient as Brock tried to gather his thoughts. “...” 

Brock gave a sad, almost sardonic scoff. “Y’know, at the very least I probably could have been bi… Used to look at girls when I was younger - but my foster mother… She turned me off pussy for life when she held me down and forced me to eat her out…” 

Winter moved closer at these words, hesitant and uncertain like he was sure he would only be beaten if he got too close, and Brock knew he only had himself to blame for that. “Like… Like in my throat, Brock…?” 

“Yes.” 

Winter gave a full-body cringe so violent, Brock felt it more than saw it. “Hate it… Hate that…” 

Brock shrugged. “I used to, too. I got over it for ya, though, Wints. You’re the only person I’ve ever been happy to suck off. But… Man, they really fucked me up, Wints…” 

Winter leant into the hand that came to stroke his hair. He closed his eyes and let out a relaxed sigh, his muscles loosening until he could finally lay calmly. “What do, Brock? W-what… What they do to Brock…?” 

Brock never commented on Winter’s poor grasp of the English language, and he wasn’t going to start now; not when that was so unimportant compared to the topic of conversation. 

Brock’s eyes hardened, and his hands clenched into fists as he recalled memories he’d tried so hard to block out. “Well… Remember that mission Pierce gave you to kill the woman with the red light in her window? When you got there, she was bein’ fucked by some guy.” 

Winter shuddered at the memory. Whether it was from remembering the kill, or the situation, Brock wasn’t sure. He replied, in a soft, far-away tone that worried Brock as to how grounded in reality he still was. “Winter watched… all of it…” 

Brock nodded. He wasn’t going to remind Winter of the long hours he’d spent, hiding in the air ducts and watching as client after client came in for their transaction. “You did. And I know you didn’t like seein’ it, Wints. But that was what they did to me. They… They  _ sold  _ me, the sick fucks. When I finally got outta foster care, I thought I was done with that kinda life, but… Guess not. Guess I was just easy or somethin’ ‘cause even in the military it happened, Wints…” 

Winter reached out slowly, his flesh hand shaking as it came ever closer to Brock’s head. He took a deep breath, chancing the action he loved so very dearly himself, and dropped his palm into Brock’s hair, rubbing it with all the gentleness he was capable of. “It makes… us  _ bad,  _ Brock…?” 

“‘Course not; why would it make  _ us  _ bad? It’s  _ everyone else  _ who did it to us who’s bad!” Brock blinked back tears of anger that would  _ never  _ be directed at Winter for such a genuine question. “We didn’t do anythin’ to deserve that shit, Wints… Don’t ever think that we did.” 

The room was silent for so long, Brock thought Winter had fallen asleep. But soon enough, Winter whispered, “Nightmares… About it…” 

“You still have nightmares?” 

“Yes…” 

“I do, too; it’s nothin’ to be ashamed ‘bout,” Brock promised. “Is that what woke you up again tonight?” 

Winter shook his head. “Hard…” 

Brock sighed. Not that he really wanted to talk about it, but he may as well while the subject was raised. “I don’t… really have wet dreams… Don’t really got much  _ to  _ get wet over… Last one I had was a couple months back, when we were still with HYDRA.”

Winter cocked his head to the side. Brock heard the action against the soft sheets beneath their heads, so he clarified. 

“I mean… I know it’s pro’ly only gonna disappoint ya, Wints, but I… am not very good in bed… Maybe I  _ should  _ let ya go with the girls instead; ‘least then you can actually get some decent fucks…” 

“Not good in bed?” Winter frowned when Brock nodded. “Not understand. Explain.” 

Brock’s face flushed with embarrassment. He raised a hand to his face to hide behind as he forced out, “I mean I can barely even get it up, Wints! I struggle just jerkin’  _ myself  _ off - even when I  _ really  _ get the urge to! Even if I  _ do  _ manage to get it up, I either go soft or I can’t fuckin’ come!” 

Winter hummed thoughtfully as he thought about those words. When he replied, it was with such seriousness, Brock could have choked. “Winter jerk Brock off then, da?” 

“Don’t you  _ da  _ me - this ain’t fuckin’ Mother Russia,” Brock growled, trying to hide his embarassment. 

“Da,” Winter repeated again, more playfully this time. He moved closer, closer, until their fronts were pressed together and their mouths were connected in a deep kiss. Their hands wandered, Brock’s palms sliding up and down Winter’s body, and Winter’s trying to mimic against Brock’s own skin. They broke apart slowly, their lips still connected by a thick string of saliva. Winter’s whisper was so hot, so seductive, and Brock  _ knew  _ Winter didn’t even realise. “Winter help…?”   

Brock couldn’t say no. He knew he should; knew that Winter still wasn’t healed and barely had a grasp on sex - but that part of Brock that was so damaged, so irrepairable and broken and  _ confused _ , won out. “Gods yes.” 

Brock pushed himself up into a sitting position, his palms out behind him and his arms outstretched to keep him upright. His legs were splayed out, plenty of room between them for Winter to sit and pull his sleeping pants down just enough for his cock to pop out. It wasn’t hard; uncomfortably small and soft. In the darkness of the bedroom, his face flushed again. 

“It, uh… It gets bigger when I’m hard, I swear…” Brock scratched nervously at his cheek, not knowing why he was so afraid of Winter judging him when he knew that if there was just one person in this world who wouldn’t care about how inadequate he was in bed, it was Winter. 

Winter looked up to find Brock’s gaze again. There was no taunting, no judgement or amusement when he spoke. Instead, all it was was sincerity. “It’s cute.” 

Brock had expected for so many reactions, his list would have traveled well into the next decade - but  _ cute?  _ Cute wasn’t even  _ on  _ his list. “What…?” 

“Cute.” Maybe it was the lack of light playing tricks with Brock’s mind, but he was sure he could see the outline of a smile on Winter’s face. “I like.” 

In a horrible, depressing way, Winter probably  _ did  _ like it; the smaller the erection, the less pain of it being forced up his ass...

Brock cleared his throat and forced himself to think of something else. “Thanks, I guess…” 

Winter frowned now. He looked down at his own lap with something akin to shame on his face. “I don’t like mine… Mine is ugly…” 

“No, it’s not,” Brock soothed. He remained honest as he murmured, “I love yours, Wints… It’s… It’s, uh…” 

Winter’s eyes were sad as he whispered, “Everyone says it’s ugly, Brock.” 

“It’s not. It’s… Well, it’s… I don’t know… But it’s  _ not  _ ugly. C’mere.” Brock reached out to grab Winter by the shoulders and pull him closer. He pressed their lips together again, well aware of the hardness that was Winter’s hips pressing against him. He trailed his fingers down Winter’s stomach, to his groin, stopping only as his fingers toyed with the hem of his pants. He broke the kiss so he could murmur, “Is it okay, Wints...?”

Winter nodded. His eyes were half-lidded now as he looked down to Brock’s cock. It wasn’t bulging the way he’d learned from HYDRA they did whenever someone wanted to fuck him, and he didn’t know if he felt relief or shame. 

But still, Winter whispered back a mimic of Brock’s question, nodding when Brock told him to go ahead.

Winter’s flesh fingers moved so lightly against Brock’s soft flesh, Brock reached out to take his hand and squeeze it as encouragement to tighten his grip. Likewise, Brock moved his hand along Winter’s erection quicker, holding him more firmly and taking the time to rub his thumb against the tip of Winter’s erection. 

Winter have a soft sigh of contentment. He didn’t feel too much; every now and then a faint sensation of flesh-on-flesh contact. But once in a while Brock would find that same spot on his arousal that Winter had discovered, and Winter’s breath would hitch and his hips stutter. 

Brock, regardless of his own pleasure he could feel, wasn’t finding it easy to harden properly; Winter’s clumsy, inexperienced fingers, while feeling good, didn’t seem to be enough to get him much further than almost half-hard. 

Winter was getting bold though. He straightened his back and claimed Brock’s lips for his own. Their mouths opened, Brock’s tongue leading Winter’s in a dance he still didn’t quite understand. 

Brock’s body tensed when Winter’s metal hand pushed at his shoulder to lay him back, but he allowed himself to be moved. He tried not to think about how similar it was to things in his past, about how his foster father used to hold him down by the shoulders so his wife could pull Brock’s pants down and slip his flaccid self inside of her and  _ ride _ . 

But Winter must have felt the tension, because he froze and looked at Brock with fearful eyes. “Winter bad…?” 

Brock shook his head and forced the bad memories from his mind. “Nope. Winter  _ good _ .” 

It seemed to be all the encouragement that Winter needed to keep going, because now that Brock was on his back, Winter was laying on top of him, nearly crushing him with all his weight. Winter reached down between their bodies and lined their cocks together, rocking their hips against one another as he sought out the same kind of pleasure he could really only seem to find when Steve was involved. 

Brock still wasn’t very hard. It wasn’t that he didn’t  _ want  _ to be hard… But no matter what, he just couldn’t seem to get his cock very interested in the proceedings. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of Winter grinding against him, but despite how pleasurable it was, it only seemed to make him go softer. 

“Fuck…” Brock turned his head to the side, feeling himself losing the very last of whatever arousal he had left. He was embarrassed, ashamed at just how dysfunctional he was emotionally and sexually - Winter deserved so much better, deserved someone who could actually please him in bed and not fuckin’ lay there like a useless dead fish. 

It didn’t last long. Not when Winter was spilling himself between them, and Brock could only give a loud sob and bring his hands up to hide his face. If Winter knew that Brock was upset, he didn’t show it, but still, he rolled off of Brock and pulled him into his arms, holding on tight as a sated sigh escaped him. 

Brock flinched away when Winter nuzzled his face into his hair; it was too much affection he wasn’t accustomed to, and he wanted Winter to stop. 

Winter sighed contentedly again before he whispered, far too bubbly, too  _ happily,  _ “I love you, Brock~” 

Brock cried at that, and he didn’t even try to hide it. 

***

Brock used to be good at getting out of bed early in the mornings and pretending he didn’t feel so exhausted and  _ empty  _ already. But those days were long gone, and he wasn’t sure they’d ever come back. 

In a way, it didn’t matter too much, because Winter was slowly finding his own morning routine, and it meant that Brock could laze about in bed for another hour or two with his eyes closed and lightly dosing against Winter’s side. 

“Brock?” 

Brock’s eyes snapped open at Winter’s soft voice. He hummed tiredly as he looked up into Winter’s face, trying to see what he needed. “Hmm…?” 

“What is this word?” Winter rolled onto his side so he could show Brock his book. “What means?” 

As tired as Brock was, he still forced his eyes to stay open and find the word Winter was pointing to. He explained the word, glad that Winter gave a satisfied nod and returned to his book. 

But just as Brock was drifting off again, Winter’s voice snapped him back to the world of the conscious. 

“I want…” Winter still sounded uncertain, as if he were speaking in a foreign language he knew he barely grasped, “...to look at more books…” 

Brock understood the unspoken request. “You want me to take you to buy new books to read?” 

Winter’s eyes darted to the side as he nodded. “...” 

Brock kissed Winter’s forehead. He laid his head back down on the pillow and closed his eyes, hoping for a little more sleep before he would have to get up and make Winter his breakfast. “I’ll take ya, Wints. Just… gotta ask.” 

Brock fell back asleep, Winter quiet as he focused on his book. Brock woke up again just before seven, to Winter’s flesh hand gently stroking his hair. Brock was coming to accept that he was probably never going to sleep through a full night again - not with Winter still waking like clockwork every hour of every night, and then waking for good anywhere after four - but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still try and salvage what little sleep he could get. 

Brock somehow dragged himself out of bed. Probably because he knew that Winter had to eat, and he wasn’t yet capable of feeding himself. Winter followed Brock out of the room and to the kitchen, bringing his book with hm so he could keep reading; he was fascinated by the current events, and Brock only ever encouraged him to read as much as he wanted to. 

Winter sat at the table, his nose all but glued to the pages as Brock banged around the kitchen. People came and went, but Winter didn’t pay them any attention; not when he needed to know if the main character was going to finally find what it was they’ve been searching for since the start of the book. 

Brock came and placed a bowl of rice down on the table, just as Winter finished the second-last chapter. “Rice will be good for ya if you can keep it down, Wints; help with ya bein’ so malnourished. Should be gentle on your stomach, too.” 

Brock had come prepared with two spoons. He gave one to Winter and used the other to scoop up some rice for himself. Winter wasn’t a fast eater, probably never would be able to be again with just how badly HYDRA had fucked him up, but he seemed to like the rice enough to eat a little more than he usually would. 

They didn’t finish the rice, even between the two of them - Brock’s appetite had been shit for years anyway - but it didn’t matter too much; Winter was starting to eat better, and that was all that Brock cared about. 

Winter didn’t like being in their bedroom during the day. He liked to be out with everyone else where he could talk to everybody and follow them around as they went about their own lives. It wasn’t something Brock enjoyed or even  _ liked,  _ but it made Winter happy, and at least everyone else seemed to realise that he wanted to be left alone when he would take the empty sofa for himself and turn the TV on. 

That was what happened again today. Brock scowled at the way Winter moved directly for the occupied sofa to cuddle in against Trip and show him his book. Brock looked away as Mack came to join the two, pretending he didn’t see the way Mack ruffled Winter’s hair and then set to work combing his fingers through the long locks to untangle the knots. 

Brock frowned at the sight, not realising until now just how dirty and matted Winter’s hair was. When was the last time Brock had even  _ brushed  _ it for him? He really was a shit person; he hadn’t even been grooming Winter properly as of late. 

But no one said anything about Winter’s current state - and in the back of Brock’s mind, he was relieved; no one wanted to admit to not even having the mental energy to bathe and groom your partner or yourself.

Winter seemed too happy where he was, listening to old stories he was told about times that had been taken away from him. He didn’t move or even react when more people came to sit with him, and Brock envied him for that; what he wouldn’t give to be fuckin’  _ normal _ …

Someone  _ did  _ come to sit on the sofa next to Brock, and Brock scowled again as he moved to press himself against the arm of the sofa. They stayed where they were, giving him the distance, but when another body came and stole it away from him, Brock swore to himself as he got off the sofa and sat on the floor instead, cursing everyone. 

No one approached Brock after that, and as uncomfortable as the floor was, he still laid down on his side and curled into a ball so he could try and force himself into sleep. 

Brock may have succeeded if it weren’t for Winter shaking his shoulder and calling his name. “What…?” 

Winter raised his book into the air to show Brock again. “Books…?” 

Brock sighed. His mind felt too heavy, as if there were a dark fog inside weighing him down. He didn’t have the energy to take Winter out. He barely had the energy to even  _ look  _ at him. Truthfully, he just wanted to go back to sleep and leave someone else to take Winter to get his books. 

“Wints…” Brock’s voice sounded hoarse and  _ dead,  _ even to his own ears. “I’m tired…” 

The look on Winter’s face was so crestfallen, Brock felt guilty. He expected Winter to complain, to be upset that Brock had gone back on his word. But instead, Winter only curled up against Brock, dragged his fingers through Brock’s hair, and whispered, “Is Brock sad again…?” 

Brock nodded. He sighed and closed his eyes, knowing that there were still people around and probably listening in on them. But he couldn’t bring himself to care this time; he didn’t care about what they could possibly think of him. “How’d you know…?” 

Winter dragged his hand from Brock’s hair so he could instead ghost his flesh fingertips against the side of Brock’s face. He cocked his head to the side as he licked his lips, not sure what exactly to say. “...People… tell Winter Brock is still sad…” 

“People…?” 

Winter hummed, but he didn’t seem willing to elaborate any more on that. “Brock… depressed?” 

“Yeah…” 

Winter sighed sadly. “Like Winter… Brock not want to look at books…?” 

Brock shook his head. “No, Wints…” 

Winter was still and silent for so long, Brock was sure he’d broken Winter’s heart. But then, Winter moved closer to lay against Brock, his metal fingers playing absentmindedly with the fabric of Brock’s sleeping shirt. “Sometimes… Winter doesn’t want to do anything, Brock… Sometimes Winter just wants to go to sleep and not wake up…” 

“Yeah…” Brock sighed. He reached out to brush stray locks of hair out of Winter’s face. “Yeah, me too, buddy… Me, too…”

Winter gave an uncomfortable fidget before he murmured, “We don’t have to look at books if Brock doesn’t want to… Winter doesn’t mind…”

“You didn’t do anythin’ wrong, Wints,” Brock promised. He swept Winter’s hair behind his ear to whisper again. “You didn’t do  _ anythin’.  _ It’s  _ me _ .” 

“Brock…?” Winter licked his lips. He looked away again so he could whisper, “Does Brock… want to die…?” 

Brock wasn’t going to lie to Winter, or even question how Winter knew that. Instead, he just nodded and whispered, “Every  _ fuckin’  _ day, Wints…” 

Winter’s arms reached out to pull Brock against his body. He held on tight, keeping him wrapped in his strong hold, but still, Brock’s throat felt too swollen for him to get any words past it even if he tried. 

Winter spoke again, in a voice so unusually depressed, Brock couldn’t help but flinch. “Brock’s eyes are sad now…” 

“Sad…?” 

Winter nodded. “Sad. Not angry or scared anymore. Just… Sad.” 

Brock scrunched his eyes shut tight and nodded. “You think they used to be angry, Wints…?” 

“Da. Angry. Scared. But not because of Winter… Angry like Winter. Scared like Winter. But not  _ at  _ Winter.” 

Brock allowed Winter to pull him to rest beneath Winter’s chin, tucked tight against his body. He fought back a sob. “Wints… I  _ am  _ sad… I  _ do  _ want to die… But  _ none  _ of it is ‘cause of  _ you,  _ alright…? You’re the only thing that keeps me alive…”

Winter was silent for so long, Brock had given up on Winter replying. But then, finally, he replied. “ я тоже…” 

Brock looked at Winter then, long and hard, before he sighed and caressed Winter’s cheek with his fingertips. He shook his head. “You’ve got other things to live for than just me, Wints… You got  _ friends  _ now, and if anythin’ ever happens to me, I want you to stay with ‘em…” 

Winter frowned. He cocked his head to the side. Brock was sure that Winter was going to protest his orders. But instead, all he said was, “But they’re Brock’s friends, too…”

Brock couldn’t stop himself from bawling his eyes out at those words. He didn’t understand how Winter could say such a thing - not when the only friend Brock had ever had was Rollins, and even then it had been a questionable friendship. 

People like Coulson and his crew - normal people with smarts and good looks and nice, caring personalities - shouldn’t want to associate with a piece of shit like Brock Rumlow, taint their good names by treating him like he could  _ possibly  _ be one of them… 

But the fact was… They  _ did _ . And Brock couldn’t understand it. His tears came harder, until his chest was heaving and he felt like he was being strangled from the weight of the choked-off sobs. 

Winter left him. In the back of his mind he knew that Winter would never stay -  _ couldn’t  _ stay. Brock had always been alone; there was  _ no way  _ even the  _ shell  _ of the man who used to be James Barnes would still want him in the end. 

“Hug Brock…?” 

“Bucky, I don’t think we’re going to be much help to him by this stage…” 

Brock’s lips curled into a sneer. His half-lidded eyes burned with anger, no matter how misdirected it was; even  _ they  _ were too repulsed by how pathetic he was being right now. He closed his eyes again, trying so hard to stop being so dramatic before he made  _ everyone  _ hate him sooner than they would anyway. 

“I’ll do it.” 

Brock didn’t so much as hear the words as he felt the hand come to rest in his hair. It wasn’t Winter’s. It was too small, less calloused and not scarred from decades of weaponry. He opened his eyes, finding Fitz kneeling next to his head, looking at Winter with terrified, yet sympathetic eyes. 

“Bucky…?” Fitz was frightened of Winter - the plaster cast keeping his wrist in place to heal told enough on its own - but still… The fact that Fitz - kind, shy little Fitz with his own trauma and brain damage that had him barely able to face his own  _ friends  _ daily - was willing to help Brock… “Is it okay…?” 

Winter nodded without hesitation. He watched with careful eyes as Fitz laid down with Brock, one hand in Brock’s hair and the other sliding along his forearm, but he knew that Fitz only wanted to help; Fitz was gentle, like him, but what had happened between them wasn’t because of  _ anything  _ Fitz had done. 

Winter knew he had to say sorry to Fitz one day, but he still didn’t know how to do it. 

Winter wasn’t sure if Fitz was really helping Brock much like he’d thought a hug would. Brock was still crying, despite Fitz whispering to him and comforting him with his hands. Winter had thought for sure it would help since Brock and Steve had always seemed to calm him with soft words and tight hugs, but maybe it wasn’t after all.

Maybe... it  _ was  _ helping, more than Winter was capable of understanding after everything he’d been through, because once Fitz started crying, too, Brock calmed just enough to hold him back and return the soft whispers until eventually, they both fell asleep. 

Winter didn’t know what to do now. He was used to being the one needing the comfort, so he tried to go through his memories and recall what Brock would do with him. The trouble with having memory issues was that he didn’t know if he could trust what he  _ could  _ remember - but the idea of putting a blanket over the two of them felt  _ much  _ more comforting than the memories of blood and screaming that dominated his mind. 

Winter turned to Trip, and with eyes he didn’t even know were pleading, he murmured, “Blanket…?” 

“Good thinking, Bucky.” Trip smiled back at Winter, ruffling his hair before he got up to fetch a blanket. 

Winter stayed on the couch after that, even when everyone else came and went. He stayed on the couch, his knees tucked against his chest and his arms wrapped around them as he watched Fitz and Brock, guarding them in a way he  _ knew  _ was too much like the Soldier had been, but he didn’t care; until they awoke and he could assess that they were both okay, he would be as much the Winter Soldier as he had to be as long as it meant that they would be safe. 

***

Brock took Winter to the bookshop later that afternoon. Fitz accompanied them, tucked tight against Brock’s side and throwing nervous glances at Winter. Brock said nothing until they’d found a bookshop, entered, and let Winter go off on his own to look around. 

“He’s not gonna hurt ya, y’know.” Brock was gentle as he held Fitz’s gaze. “It wasn’t like him what he did, kid; he wasn’t feelin’ so good in himself.”

Fitz looked down at the ground. His mouth moved wordlessly for a few moments before he looked back at Brock to whisper, “That was just like when… When  _ he  _ tried to drown us…” 

Brock frowned. He raised his arm to wrap it around Fitz’s shoulders and hold him close. He shook his head. “Trust me, kid. I  _ seen  _ what Wints is capable of… I’ve  _ commanded  _ him twenty years, so trust me when I say… If Wints  _ wanted  _ to hurt you… He wouldn’t have stopped at a broken wrist. He’s not gonna hurt you; promise. He’s really a big softie - he just…  _ Hurts _ .” 

“He scared me,” Fitz whispered. “I really… thought I was gonna…” 

“Die?” Brock gave a sad smile as Fitz nodded. “Trust me, kid… He likes ya too much for that. He’d kill  _ for  _ you but he ain’t gonna kill  _ you _ . Just go talk to him. He’s pretty harmless.” 

Fitz hesitated, but as if he trusted Brock and whatever his word was good for, he trailed after Winter. Brock watched them go with tired eyes. Now that he was alone, he left the shop so he could instead lean against the window and light a cigarette. He smoked four of them in as many minutes before he went back inside, glad to see that Fitz and Winter seemed to have gotten over what had happened and instead were looking at books together, discussing the ones they held in their hands. 

Brock didn’t approach them. He figured that it would be good for them to be alone together, to get used to each other’s company in case something happened to Brock and Winter was left alone. 

The shopkeeper didn’t seem to share the same sentiments as Brock. He gave a glare at Fitz and Winter before he turned his attention to Brock and sneered. “Aren’t you a bit old to be a pimp?” 

Brock raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

“Yeah, you’re a fucking ugly bastard, too. How much have you got to pay them to suck your dick?” 

Brock couldn’t help but laugh. “They  _ don’t  _ suck my dick, cunt. You interested? I can pay you better rates than whatever the fuck they pay you here, asshole.” 

“Wouldn’t touch an AIDS-infested ugly old dick like yours even if you paid me a million dollars. Bet you just use them to keep your bed warm because you’re an old creep.” 

Brock rolled his eyes and walked away, not interested in the same old high-school dramas that had always seemed to follow him, no matter how many times he changed schools. He walked away to a nearby shelf, pulling out books and reading random passages to see if anything caught his liking. He didn’t care what some fuck he’d never see again thought of him; he had worse problems to worry about. 

Winter and Fitz returned to Brock with some books. Winter shyly presented them, a silent request that Brock only nodded to and reached into his jeans to retrieve his wallet. He pulled out some notes and gave them to Winter, instructing him to take the books to the counter and pay for them. 

If Brock had thought the shopkeeper would say something to Fitz or Winter, he would have taken the books up himself. But the shopkeeper’s attitude had seemed solely directed towards Brock, so he let them go on their own - besides, the more exposure to real life that Winter got, the better for him. 

Brock was reading another page as the two were up at the counter paying. He wasn’t really listening, his thoughts racing too much to take much notice of what was going on around him. 

But when Fitz gave an uncomfortable murmur, Brock snapped back to attention. “Don’t… Don’t talk to him like that… We - we -we… We d-don’t… We don’t  _ do that _ …” 

Brock shoved the book back onto the shelf and looked back at Winter and Fitz. Winter seemed oblivious to whatever was going on, his gloved, metal hand still holding out the money to be taken with the fuckin’ patience of a saint. It was Fitz who looked on edge, so Brock started stomping immediately to the counter to tell the shopkeeper to go fuck himself and pick on someone else who wasn’t too shy to say something back. 

But before Brock could reach the counter, hell broke loose when the shopkeep swung his arm out at Fitz and yelled, “Don’t talk back to me, you little fag! You -”

“Winter!” Brock had to yell over the shopkeeper’s screams. “Put him down!” 

Winter looked over his shoulder at Brock, his flesh hand squeezing hard around the man’s throat as his metal hand pulled at the now-dislocated shoulder for added pain. “He’s a bully. Bullying Fitz.” 

“Put the fucker down, Wints; I  _ know  _ he’s a cunt but we don’t fuckin’ pull peoples’ shoulders out of its sockets just ‘cause someone’s an asshole,” Brock scolded. “Put him  _ down,  _ Wints. You’re better than this.” 

Winter scowled. He looked to Fitz for confirmation, as if asking if Fitz wanted him to stop or to continue. In a frightening,  _ sickening  _ way, it was almost sweet to see just how protective Winter was becoming of his new friends. 

Winter dropped the shopkeep at Fitz’s scared plea to stop. He looked at Brock now, waiting for further instructions. He gathered his books when Brock told him to take them and walk Fitz to the car, and once the two were out of the shop, Brock jumped the counter and crouched down in front of the terrified, agonised man. 

“He’s a better man than me,” Brock growled lowly as he kept his eyes locked on to the man’s own. “He won’t kill unless I give him the order to. But me…?” 

The shopkeep’s terror only grew on his face as he watched the way Brock reached into his pocket and pulled out a revolver. His begging, pleading eyes looked back at Brock’s face. 

“You insulted my partner, and you insulted my friend,” Brock growled. “I don’t give a shit what you say to me, but you leave them  _ out  _ of it. They’ve been through enough shit. You talk to them like that again, you try and  _ hit  _ them again…” 

The safety was pulled off the revolver, and Brock stared thoughtfully at the man. 

After long seconds that dragged by like years, Brock threw the revolver onto the floor before he leant in close, close enough for his hot breath to billow against the man’s face, and whispered, “Shoot yourself.” 

With that, Brock jumped back over the counter and left the shop, heading immediately to check on Fitz and Winter and ensure that they were still safe. 

At the very back of Brock’s mind, burden left his heavy body at the knowledge that there had once been a time in his life where that shopkeep would have been leaving the store in a bodybag. 

***

They returned to the airbus easily enough, Fitz still shaken but quickly getting over it, and Winter keeping his arms wrapped tight around Fitz for the drive back, protective.

When Brock drove the SUV back onto the plane, Winter was the first one out of the car so he could go and show his new books to everyone. Brock took his time turning the car off, and Fitz, who had seemed suddenly uncomfortable, turned to look at him.

“Rumlow…?” Fitz’s voice was small, uncertain. 

“Yeah?” Brock turned the engine off and removed the keys from the ignition. 

Fitz looked down at his lap, fumbling his hands together nervously. When he spoke, it was with the same difficulty he’d always shown since Brock had been there. “E-e-everyone l-likes… Likes Jemma… And I, uh, I… I just… Bucky - a-and Trip, and - I-I-I- S-she likes t-them, a-a-and...” 

Brock cocked his head to the side. Truthfully, he admitted. “I don’t like her, kid.” 

Fitz looked up, hurt and confused. “...” 

Brock clarified himself. “No, not like that. I like her, but I don’t wanna  _ fuck  _ her.” 

“Oh…” 

“She’s pretty. But she’s not my type.” Brock shrugged. “‘Sides, I got Winter.” 

“He likes her, too, Rumlow…” Fitz whispered, his eyes wide. “A-and s-she likes  _ him _ …” 

Brock shrugged again. “Dunno if he does, kid. Maybe. But she don’t like him back. Promise. You like her, don’t you?” 

Fitz excused himself quickly at that, disappearing into the plane with panicked excuses that didn’t even make any sense. 

Brock sighed. He left the car, too, heading in to find where Winter had disappeared to. He found him, holding the girls hostage in the living area as he excitedly showed them his books. 

To Brock’s honest surprise, Winter requested for Simmons to read to him. What came as even more of a surprise was that she agreed. 

And honestly? When Brock walked into their bedroom early that night and found Winter in their bed, in a deeper sleep than Brock had ever seen him, with Simmons still reading quietly, Brock felt his jaw drop. 

“When did he sleep?” Brock whispered, taking careful note that Winter wasn’t disturbed in the least by his presence.

“Before I finished the first page,” Simmons whispered back. 

Brock nodded. He dismissed Simmons, stripping his clothes off and then getting into bed with Winter. Winter never woke that night, and he slept all the way until six-thirty, rousing peacefully and comfortably for once. 

The next day, Brock requested for Simmons to read to Winter each night to help him sleep. 


	24. Chapter 24

Brock woke up in a cold sweat. His breathing was harsh, his pants deafening to his own ears. His eyes were wide and his hands couldn’t stop trembling. He was on high alert, the nightmares very real and fresh in his mind. 

Brock reached up and grasped at his hair, pulling so violently, he ripped chunks from his scalp. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth, biting down hard enough to draw blood, his body rocking on the spot as he tried desperately to calm himself down.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck…” Brock couldn’t stop shaking. The room was too dark to see much, but he could hear Winter’s soft, rhythmic breathing from next to him; Winter was still asleep, undisturbed by Brock’s distress. 

It was probably a good thing, Brock knew, but still… It would have been nice for Brock to have someone to talk to. 

“Jesus fuck motherfucking cunt -” Brock ripped at his hair again, his rocking becoming more desperate as his thoughts turned away from his dreams instead into the same train of thoughts he’d spent most of his life fighting against. 

It would be only too easy, Brock knew. His gun was within reaching distance; all he had to do was lean across the bed and pull open the drawer of the bedside table to retrieve it. He could be dead before anyone even realised what the bang was. Worst case scenario, he’d bleed out, but he was skilled enough with a gun to keep them from saving him, even if they got to him in time. 

But Winter… 

Brock turned to look at Winter, so peaceful for once in his life, oblivious to Brock’s inner turmoil next to him. 

Brock could take Winter out with him. It would be merciful; Winter would probably thank him in the afterlife for putting him out of his misery. 

The tears came harder. Brock threw the covers off of him and fled the room before he  _ did  _ take hold of his gun and leave a corpse or two in the bed. He paced the hallway, past all the closed doors that led to personal bedrooms, and part of him was relieved that everyone seemed to be asleep; if anyone were to come out and see him pacing like a madman outside of their bedroom, they would surely have been frightened to see his wide, desperate eyes and the claw marks he had left on his face, probably in his sleep as he didn’t remember clawing at his face. 

_ Kill yourself. Everyone will be better off without scum like you around.  _

_ Your own  _ family  _ didn’t love you - why would these people be any different? You can’t be loved. You don’t even love yourself.  _

_ Coward. _

_ Pathetic.  _

_ Nazi terrorist.  _

Brock slumped against the wall, barely holding his own weight up by his two feet. His shoulders and chest were heaving with how heavily his tears were coming now. He clawed at his arms now, leaving angry, bloodied marks, just like the ones on his face. The scariest part was, he didn’t even realise he was doing it. 

_ Too fuckin’ cowardly to even kill yourself - but look at all the people  _ you’ve  _ killed. The only good thing you’ll ever do in your life is to kill yourself. It’d be a mercy to them all. _

Brock’s fist found its way inside his mouth, his teeth biting down and drawing more blood to join the rest. It was either that, or put his fist through the wall, but Brock had done enough. He’d done  _ enough _ . 

“Oh, fuck fuck…!” Brock wished that the hallway light wasn’t on, because maybe then he wouldn’t be looking at his arm, wiping blood away and fixing his gaze on scars so old, they were easy enough to pass off as wounds from the military. 

But here and now, Brock couldn’t tear his eyes from the old self-harm scars, and an urge stronger than he could ever remember having had made a comeback, desire for nothing more than to go back to his room and get a blade and add fresh cuts to the collection he’d always felt shame towards. 

Brock’s feet moved by themselves without his awareness. It wasn’t until his hand was on the handle of his bedroom door did he realise what he’d done, and with a recoil worthy of having been burned by lava, he jumped back.

Brock was surely a mess to look at, his face sweaty and wet from tears, his nose running and, from the feel of it sliding down his chin, saliva escaping past his lips. He leant against the wall again, his back sliding down it as he crumpled in a pathetic heap to the ground, staring ahead with a dazed expression; he knew that if he went into that room, he wasn’t coming out alive. 

Brock reached up and tapped at the comm in his ear. Weakly, burning with shame and embarrassment but also  _ desperation _ , he whispered, “Rogers…? You up…?” 

No response came over the comm, and Brock didn’t push it; now that Winter was starting to sleep through the nights, it was likely Steve was taking his earpiece out at night for a more comfortable sleep himself. 

But that didn’t make Brock feel any better. In fact, all it did was make him want to die more. 

Brock stayed where he was, scared to move in case he found himself making a beeline for his gun. He rocked violently back and forth, struggling to breathe beneath the weight of his tears. 

It was a cough from the other end of the hallway that had Brock  _ dragging  _ himself along the ground and all the way to Coulson’s bedroom. He hesitated when he got there, his already-erratic breathing catching in his throat as he held his hand to the door, poised to knock. 

Brock didn’t know how he did it, but somehow, he knocked at the door and found himself flinching when it was opened from the inside. 

“Rumlow, what…” Whatever had been on Coulson’s mind was forgotten as he knelt down and immediately grabbed Brock by the shoulders, his expression twisted with deep concern. He didn’t make any move to bring Brock into the room; instead, he sat there, rubbing Brock’s shoulders and whispering over and over. “It’s okay, it’s okay… It’s okay, Rumlow. It’s okay…” 

But no matter how hard Coulson tried, Brock couldn’t stop crying until he’d just cried himself out of emotion. 

***

“Drink this. It’ll help you feel better.” 

Brock eyed the cup in Coulson’s hands with disdain. He was sat on the edge of Coulson’s bed, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his breakdown, sniffling back the last of the tears that were falling every now and then. 

Brock didn’t refuse the kind gesture, and reluctantly he accepted the warm cup and held it in his lap, staring down into the liquid with a detached curiosity. “Wha’sit…?” 

“Mocha. It’ll help you relax.” Coulson took a seat on the bed next to Brock, his own hands void of anything for himself. Brock knew he shouldn’t feel so  _ guilty,  _ but he couldn’t help it; no one was ever so selfless with him as to let him have something for himself without any ulterior motives.

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity to Brock. Coulson’s patience didn’t seem to be thinning, Brock thought, but he was finding it hard to trust that he  _ really  _ didn’t mind just sitting there with him. 

Brock fidgeted uncomfortably before he tenderly put the cup on the bedside table and moved to push himself off the bed. His mumble was quiet, almost incomprehensible from his discomfort. “Sorry, I’ll, uh, leave; don’t wanna bother ya…” 

All Coulson did was  _ smile.  _ “You can leave if you really want to, but I don’t mind sitting here with you. If that’s what you need, I’ll stay up, Rumlow.” 

Brock flinched. His hands fumbled together before he mumbled carefully, “But you’re pro’ly tired and I’m keepin’ you awake…” 

Coulson shrugged. His smile never faltered, and Brock wanted so badly to believe that just for once, he wasn’t being lied to. “I don’t mind. Really.” 

Brock looked to his lap. He weighed all the questions he had carefully in his mind, trying to decide which one wouldn’t piss Coulson off if he were asked it. “...But… You do this… for your team…?” 

“I do, as I am sure you would have done for  _ your  _ subordinates,” Coulson promised gently. “I also do it for my friends.” 

Brock flinched again. Surely Coulson wasn’t meaning Brock when he implied friendship…

Brock fell silent again, not saying another word for close to ten minutes until finally, he whispered, “How far does this offer go…? What’s involved…?” 

“What do you mean?” 

Brock chewed at his lip as he worded his reply in his head. “I mean… What is expected of me…? Payments…? Can there be more… than just sittin’...?” 

Coulson was frowning now, but to Brock’s simmering anger, he didn’t look mad. Instead, he answered as patiently as he always had, understanding seemingly in his tone. “There are  _ no  _ payments involved for me  _ caring  _ about you, Rumlow. If that happened in the past, I don’t know, and I’m never going to ask you to tell me about your history or anything you don’t want disclosed. But I  _ will  _ say this. We’ve never hurt James, and we will  _ never  _ hurt  _ you,  _ Rumlow. You’re part of our team, and we  _ support  _ you. Whatever you’re going through… We  _ support  _ you.” 

Brock squeezed his eyes shut tight and forced the words out so quickly, even he wasn’t sure entirely of what he had said. “I was gonna kill myself and pro’ly Wints too tonight…”

There was no judgement whatsoever in Coulson as he moved closer to put his hand on Brock’s knee. “What made you think about taking James with you, Rumlow? Do you know?” 

Brock shook his head quickly. “Now you’re gonna think I’m gonna kill you all and you’re gonna get rid of me…” 

“Not at all, Rumlow. Not if you help me understand you.” 

Brock let out a choked sob. Well, now that he had taken the plunge, he may as well go through with it. “I dunno why I thought ‘bout killin’ Wints - I just did! The voices… I-I dunno, man; think I just - I-I dunno; just… J-just… I don’t know why I thought that ‘cause I never want to hurt Wints  _ ever _ …” 

Coulson looked more alert now, but still, Brock hated that he wasn’t seeing all the hate and disgust in him that Brock expected to see. “You mentioned voices, Rumlow? Are you schizophrenic?” 

Brock shook his head. “No. Not… Not like that. Just… Voices.” 

“What do they say to you?” 

Brock shrugged. “Just remind me how worthless I am and how I should just die…” 

“How long has this been happening for?”

“Eh. Years now. Maybe since I was still in the military.” 

Coulson’s expression turned soft, too soft. “Did you know that psychotic depression is a very severe form of depression, Rumlow? Have you been taking the medication Simmons gave to you?” 

Brock nodded. “Yeah… But don’t think they’re doin’ anythin’ anyway…” 

“I’ll talk to her tomorrow and see if she can give you anything else. But I’d really like for you to meet May’s ex-husband. He’s a psychologist, and I’d rather you talk to someone that I know and trust will be good to you.” 

Brock dropped his face into his hands and scratched. His voice was muffled by his palms as he mumbled, “Can’t just talk to you instead…?” 

“Of course you can talk to me about anything that bothers you, but I’m not a psychologist, Rumlow; I only want for you to get the help that you deserve.” 

Brock pulled his hands away and turned his head to the side to look at Coulson. “That I deserve…?” 

“Yes. We’ve gotten to know you, and we trust that you’re only trying to create a better life for yourself - but you’re stuck, and you don’t know how to,” Coulson murmured. “Our pasts can never be rewritten… But trying to change your future into something better? That takes courage. Bravery.  _ Strength _ . But even with all those qualities, you can’t get far when every day you want to kill yourself.” 

Brock flinched when Coulson grabbed his wrist and examined the claw marks. “...” 

“May I?” Coulson waited until he received a hesitant nod before he got up from the bed and moved to get a small cloth and a bottle of antiseptic. He sat back down next to Brock, working diligently on tending to the wounds on Brock’s arms before moving to his face. “That’s why I really think seeing Andrew will be good for you. We’ve been talking between us about taking James to see him, too - get him proper therapy and hope for him to heal. He’s doing well, but we worry sometimes that we aren’t giving him enough.” 

Brock shook his head. “I don’t want Wints taken to anyone I don’t already know. He’s scared of doctors and all that shit. White lab coats. He hates ‘em. Scared of ‘em. But me? Well, fuck, I don’t know; I guess I just don’t want to be talkin’ ‘bout this shit with strangers.” 

“If you’d like, I can get in touch with Andrew tomorrow and make an appointment for you to meet him.” 

Brock shuddered. His body went tense as he shook his head. “No, not… Not yet… Not… Not ready.” 

Coulson let the subject drop at that. “Do you feel that we are helping you, Rumlow?” 

Brock shrugged. “Never really thought about it, to be honest… My friend, Rollins, he’d… If I was havin’ a bad day and he could tell, he’d just yell and hit me.” 

“Not what most of us would define a friend as, but each to their own. If he was your friend, should I be worried about what you class us as?” 

Brock snorted. “Not enemies, at least.” 

“That clears up a lot of questions; I’m finally going to be able to sleep tonight,” Coulson joked. 

They fell silent again, quiet until Brock murmured, “I need help… But I dunno what I’m doin’ or how to get it… I would have killed myself tonight…” 

“Rumlow…” Coulson made sure he was holding Brock’s gaze before he murmured, “You just have to  _ ask _ for help. Like you did tonight. You came to my room because you needed help. It’s really that simple. You can ask any of us for help whenever you need it, Rumlow. You just have to find us.” 

The tears came again, but Brock wasn’t so sure they were tears of self-loathing and desperation this time. Instead, it felt almost…  _ therapeutic,  _ like all the bad stuff inside of him was being washed out with the tears. He gave a heavy, yet  _ contented  _ sigh as he closed his eyes and nodded. 

“I should get back before Wints wakes…” Brock didn’t want to admit that it was taking too much out of him to be here; Coulson had given him far too much kindness in this night alone, and he didn’t want to take advantage of it. “He’ll pro’ly wake soon if I’m not back…” 

“Simmons tells me he really enjoys having her read to him.” Coulson smiled. 

Brock nodded. “He does. ...And… A request. ...Please…” 

“Whatever you need.” 

Brock fidgeted uncomfortably before he looked away and murmured, “I want… to ask her to… To, I dunno, record herself reading, so Wints can listen to it whenever she’s not around. But I don’t know how to ask her that.” 

“I’ll talk to her,” Coulson promised. “Now go get some sleep. I’ll check on you in the morning. Come back here if you need to.” 

Brock nodded. “Thanks.” 

Brock got back to his room, and stepping inside of it, he was greeted by the same anxiety he had felt upon leaving the room. But he didn’t let it get the best of him; not when Winter’s eyes were opening at the sound of the door clicking shut. 

“Brock…” Winter’s sleepy murmur put a smile on Brock’s face, but it didn’t do much to help with the anxiety. He reached out, hand in the air as he requested Brock to come back to bed.

Brock’s throat felt tight, and his breathing felt restricted as he silently crossed the room and got back into bed. He allowed Winter to wrap him up in his strong arms and hold him tight against his body.

In a way, it was good to be trapped like this when Brock was feeling so bad. 

Winter gave a small yawn before he nuzzled his face against Brock’s head. “Brock… Sleepy…” 

“Go back to sleep, Wints…” Brock rested his hand against Winter’s, trying to focus on the way his back was pressed so securely against Winter’s front. “I just went for a walk. Everythin’s okay…” 

“Sleepy… Brock, sleepy…” And just like that, Winter was out again like a light. 

But Brock couldn’t afford that same luxury, and all he could do was lay awake for the rest of the night, trying to will himself to sleep. 

***

Winter was still fast asleep when Brock finally dragged himself out of bed by ten. It wasn’t that Brock  _ wanted  _ to get up - with Winter sleeping so soundly, Brock was content to lay there with his eyes closed for as long as he could get away with it - but rather, Brock’s neck was throbbing, tight and stiff and his head feeling like it was too heavy for his neck. 

With pained groans, Brock left his bedroom and went straight to Simmons’. He sucked in a deep breath, his hand poised to knock. He almost didn’t, almost went back to his room and curled up against Winter’s body that shouldn’t have been so fucking  _ cold  _ to snuggle against, but somehow, he knocked warily at the door. 

Brock shuffled back, away from the door. What was he even doing here? Simmons wasn’t a shut-in like he was; she would be out living her own life instead of staying in her bed until her body physically  _ ached _ from the too-hard mattress. 

Brock sighed and turned around to leave, to go back to his own room and suffer in silence, but before he could get far, the door was opening and Simmons was calling him back. 

Now that she was here, what the fuck did Brock even  _ say _ ? “...” 

“Were you looking for me, Rumlow?” Sometimes, Brock really hated just how bright, how  _ happy  _ and  _ full of life  _ Simmons was, and every time that damn  _ smile  _ was directed at him, all he wanted was to yell and scream and wipe it from her face. 

But Brock knew how cruel that was; not everyone was destined to be a fuck up like  _ him _ … 

“Yeah…” Brock didn’t know how he was supposed to approach the subject - especially since every other time she had been so adamant in wanting to examine his neck he’d turned her down - so he took a deep breath and gruffed, “Look at my neck, will ya? It’s hurtin’ like a motherfucker.” 

“Come in, come in,” Simmons ushered, stepping back and making room for Brock to step past her. She grabbed him by the shoulder, pretending not to notice the way he jerked his body out of her touch, and instead walked him to her bed to sit him on. She said nothing about the way he tensed uncomfortably, avoiding all eye contact; his trust towards her in this moment was probably string-thin, and it would take only the slightest thing to break that trust. “Do I mind if I touch your neck a little bit, Rumlow?” 

Brock shrugged. He sat still, his mind wandering back to Winter and all the techs that used to work on him after a mission. His hands clenched, and he had to force himself to think of anything  _ but  _ the way Winter had only ever sat docile for the techs because he knew what would be done to him if he didn’t. 

Brock hissed at a particularly painful spot on his neck that Simmons prodded at. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything; he’d been the one to come to her for help, after all. 

“You must have whiplashed yourself very badly,” Simmons pointed out, kindly. “You’ve got a lot of masses growing, and it could be from your thoracic ducts.” 

“What’s that mean?” Brock gruffed. 

“It means my first suggestion is to be getting the cysts removed, and if they come back, a more invasive manner of treatment will have to be considered.” 

Brock scowled. Did he really trust these people enough to let them get  _ that  _ close to him? This was hard enough… 

But  _ fucking hell  _ his neck was hurting, too… 

“Those lumps that are makin’ my neck all stiff and shit…?” Brock growled. 

Simmons shook her head. “I wouldn’t think so; that would be more from the whiplash. How badly is it hurting?” 

“Real fuckin’ bad. Like, I’m wantin’ to break my own fuckin’ neck and hope I stop feelin’ it kinda bad.” 

“There could be more damage on in the inside that I can’t see,” Simmons mused. “I can try and help you with it - I can help you with exercises to try and strengthen the muscles back up - but you will have to trust me, Rumlow. I don’t want to hurt you; I only want to help you.” 

Brock looked down. He knew, deep down, that Simmons wasn’t lying to him, and that she really did only want the best for him - everyone else in his past made it perfectly clear upon meeting that they hated his guts, so why would she be any different? All Simmons had ever done towards him and Winter both were treat them like they were  _ human _ . 

“Gotta think ‘bout it,” Brock finally mumbled. He tried to crack his neck to relieve some of the immense pressure, but all it did was make it hurt more. He groaned loudly. 

Simmons grabbed Brock’s shoulder again and gave him a sad smile. “Let me know as soon as you decide what you want to do, Rumlow.” 

Brock nodded. He looked down at his lap, his eyes closing as he centred his thoughts. He opened them again to look at Simmons and murmur, “Did Coulson talk to you already?” 

“About the reading?” Simmons nodded. “What’s his favourite book?” 

“Not so sure; I’ll have to ask. He tends to like everythin’ he reads.” A tiny smile crossed Brock’s face at the thought for all of two seconds before it rested once more as his eternal scowl. He was silent for two seconds before he murmured, “He likes more so the books he can relate to.” 

Simmons smiled. “He’s so sweet. I love him.” 

Brock flinched. “Love…?” 

“No, not like that,” Simmons promised. “I love him like he’s my family because - well, he  _ is  _ my family now, just like everyone else here. So are you, Rumlow.” 

Brock looked down at his lap, trying to understand how he felt about those words. In the end, he didn’t comment on them; he only stood up, nodded at Simmons, and left. 

As much as Brock wanted to, he didn’t go back to bed; it was getting late, and Winter would be waking up soon, so breakfast would have to be made for when he was up. 

Brock wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, to close his eyes and force himself once more into sleep. But he didn’t. He found himself in the kitchen, tensed slightly where he stood by the door and watched Coulson standing by the stove, dishing up plates of paninis for everyone. 

Brock flinched when Coulson’s eyes settled on him, and he didn’t even know  _ why _ . 

“Do you want me to make some more eggs for James? They’ll be gentle on his stomach and good for him.” Coulson was smiling at Brock again, just like everyone on this fuckin’ plane always did, and Brock knew how stupid it was for anger to build over it. 

But still, Brock found himself nodding, and his feet moving towards Coulson. “I’ll make ‘em. Don’t worry ‘bout it; he’s my responsibility…” 

Coulson didn’t move. Instead, his tone became firm, yet still so damn  _ kind _ . “You overwork yourself with James. Just let us help you with him. Go sit down and I’ll bring your plate to you. It’s okay. None of us mind.” 

Brock couldn’t argue with those words; he indeed was tired, and truthfully, he couldn’t be fucked making breakfast. He sat down at the table, his head down low and his shoulders bunched up high, knowing that it wouldn’t be long for everyone to arrive for their food. 

The dining table soon became crowded, chatter and laughter as everyone enjoyed their meals together. The last person to arrive was Winter, and when he took his seat next to Brock, the sated air about him meant only one thing. 

Brock’s nose scrunched up in distaste as he stood from his chair and took Winter by the wrist, leading him to the basin to wash his hands. When he spoke, his tone was low so the others couldn’t overhear. “Wints, I keep tellin’ ya, I don’t mind if you wanna play with yourself, but you gotta clean up before you come out…” 

Winter stayed still and enjoyed the feeling of Brock washing his flesh hand under warm water and rubbing his long fingers into his hand, spreading sanitiser along his skin. He watched contentedly as Brock let go of his hand to instead reach down and conceal his flaccid arousal back inside of his pants, not allowing it to hang out past the hem of his sleepers. 

Brock sighed when he was done. Tiredly, so,  _ so  _ tiredly, he peered at Winter and croaked out, “Sit at the table; we got food for ya…” 

Winter went and sat, his eyes shining with that happy glint Brock was slowly getting used to seeing. His lips seemed stuck in what would have been cold stoic had it not been for the corners of his lips twitched upwards with the ghost of a smile. 

Brock sat back at the table and dropped his forehead into his hand. He drummed the fingers of his other hand on the hardwood table as he gave a heavy sigh, appetite gone, but having no energy to leave the table. 

Winter picked at his fried eggs, humming some sort of tune Brock was sure he’d just made up himself - although it was likely to be something from the nineteen thirties Rogers had been teaching him, Brock knew. No matter what it was, Winter was happy, and that was the important thing. 

Brock sighed again, his eyes half-lidded from exhaustion. He was sure if given enough time, he’d fall asleep on the dining table, but when Winter moved like a snake from beside him, he was wide awake and on high alert, trying to assess the situation and control Winter if needed. 

But really, all Winter had done was snatch Trip’s phone from his hand to stare at the screen with an indiscernible expression on his face. 

“Hey.” Brock nudged Winter’s side with his elbow. “Give that back.” 

“He’s okay,” Trip promised. “He saw the cats.” 

“Cats?” Brock looked over at the phone, just in time to see a video end and Winter press play again. His nose scrunched up. “Stinkin’ things…” 

If Winter had heard Brock, he didn’t show it. Instead, he watched the video in silence, his expression still stoic, until the video had ended and, almost frighteningly calm, he passed the phone back to Trip and murmured, “More…?” 

“There’s lots more,” Trip promised. He opened up his YouTube app, setting a playlist of cat videos up, and gave the phone back to Winter. Winter sat, so quietly, so  _ absorbed,  _ Brock was almost sure he should be scared. 

It was Mack who broke the uncomfortable silence. “You like cats, Bucky?” 

Winter looked up at Mack and gave a single nod before he turned back to the video he was currently watching. It ended quickly, the adult cat laying in shoeboxes quickly replaced by one of a tiny kitten barely the size of Winter’s hand, curling up with a german shepherd and falling asleep. 

A soft whine escaped Winter’s throat at that. His flesh hand moved of its own accord, fingertips stroking the screen in a manner so longing, Brock’s throat felt too tight. 

Brock cleared his throat and stood up, not in the mood for this. Without a word, he left, going back to his room to curl up under the covers and force himself back into sleep. 

***

Steve was apparently coming for a visit, Brock was informed later that day. Brock didn’t care - hell, he wasn’t sure he was  _ capable  _ of caring in his current state - but when Winter sought him out with a nervous look on his face, Brock was sure someone had told him. 

“Brock…” Winter’s hands fumbled together. He kept repeating Brock’s name, as if he were stalling for more time to decide how to phrase what was on his mind. “...I want… I want…” 

Brock, who hadn’t gotten out of bed all day, dragged the blankets higher over his body and peered sleepily up at Winter. “Wha…?” 

“I want… to go for a walk…” Winter flinched at his own request. Brock knew he was expecting a beating; he knew too well the punishments involved for trying to escape HYDRA’s watchful gaze. 

But Brock, annoyed and sleepy and just fuckin’  _ not in the mood,  _ narrowed his eyes and frowned. “Then  _ go  _ for a walk.” 

Winter shook his head. His breathing picked up slightly, panic quickly filling him. “Brock…  _ Walk? _ ” 

“What’s stoppin’ ya? You wander ‘round everyone’s rooms anyway, Winter,” Brock growled.

Winter looked so small all of a sudden, and his voice was even smaller. “Outside…” 

“Oh.” Brock understood now, and he felt like an asshole. He shook his head, not wanting to risk it. “No. Not without someone with ya.” 

Winter ducked his head. Brock was sure he’d seen tears in his eyes. “...Please…?” 

“No, Wints; not on your own. If somethin’ happens, you -” 

A loud sob cut Brock off. Winter’s shoulders heaved, and he dropped himself to his knees so he could rest against the mattress, a pitiful thing to look at, but a pure display of his aching desperation Brock hadn’t even  _ noticed _ . “Please, Brock… Please let me go outside… Please… I want to go outside…” 

How long had Winter been holding this in, Brock wondered. How long had he yearned to go outside and feel the fresh air on his face? How long had he kept silent about his desires and made do with everything he was given? 

Brock sighed. The bus was landed, away from civilisation with no one around for Winter to get into trouble with. It wasn’t like Brock would be turning him loose on a defenseless town if he were to say yes. Hell, the worst Winter could do was probably chase down some moose and come back with antlers as a trophy prize. 

But even that didn’t really sit right with Brock. 

“Look…” Brock pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing he was probably going to regret this. “You can go outside. But stay by the bus. If you wander off, you need to stay where you’ll hear us callin’ for you. Do you understand?” 

Winter nodded. He stayed still, unmoving, except for the question he asked in a tiny voice. “How long…?” 

“What?” 

Winter looked down again. “How long can I be outside for…?” 

“...” Brock closed his eyes, hoping he wasn’t going to hate himself in a few hours. “Come back inside if it starts gettin’ dark.” 

But who was Brock kidding? Brock was going to hate himself no matter what. 

  
  



	25. Chapter 25

Winter knew he wasn’t supposed to be going far on his own, especially when there were other people around, but he couldn’t help himself; the sounds of a bustling city were exciting him, and even though he’d been given explicit instructions to stay by the plane in the deserted park it was camouflaged in, he still found himself drawn into the crowds of people. 

People bumped into Winter and gave him looks he didn’t understand, but Winter barely processed it; his heart was racing, and his mouth felt dry as he tried to take in every tiny detail around him. 

What got Winter moving was seeing the tiny, fluffy puppy being walked towards him on a lead with two little kids that barely reached his knee. 

The kids recoiled at the way Winter  _ threw  _ himself at them in order to kneel down in front of the puppy and drop his flesh hand on its head. The kids’ father watched him with a raised eyebrow, cautious of the way in which Winter had approached, aware from the absent look on Winter’s face that he was someone to be careful of. 

“Dog.” Winter nodded to himself, pleased that he could recall what this tiny creature was. His flesh fingers cupped gently at the long, grey fur, reveling in the feel of its softness between his fingers. “Dog. Baby dog.” 

The kids looked up at their father, confused and a little frightened. The little boy, just a head taller than his sister, looked at her, and tightened his hold on the leash in his hands. 

Winter moved without hesitation once the puppy started licking at his hand. He reached out and picked the puppy up, holding it tight against his chest as he stood up and spun on his heels to return to the plane and show his friends his new dog. 

The father was yelling now, passersby stopping to stare, but Winter didn’t care; he ignored it all. Even when the father grabbed his shoulder to try and spin him back around, all he did was ever-so-gently take his wrist in his metal hand and gently guide it away from his body, knowing not to squeeze down like he had with Fitz. 

The man kept yelling. Winter continued his walk, but when his sensitive ears picked up on the kids starting to wail now, he stopped and looked down at the puppy. He cocked his head to the side when it started crying in his arms, fidgeting as if trying to escape and get back to the kids. 

Brock never let Winter take things from other people, Winter knew. Brock always told him to give them back because they weren’t his. He’d never really cared before, unaffected by the idea that he was taking things that didn’t belong to him and maybe his actions were upsetting other people. 

But these kids… Winter didn’t like their crying. They did things to him that made him feel sick, like he was going to vomit. He turned around and walked back to them and, without a word, he gave the puppy back. 

Winter frowned as he straightened back up and looked to his feet. His heart ached again with that same emptiness that had plagued him for as long as he could remember. He remembered how crushed he had been to have Stevie fly away from him, how much he had cried for his duckling, and he was sure that, even now, he could feel tears prickling at his eyes as he realised he couldn’t take the dog with him after all now that the kids had stopped crying at the return of it. 

Winter sighed and dragged his feet along the ground dejectedly with every intention of finding somewhere he could curl up into a ball and hide so he could cry. He knew Brock didn’t know about when he would wander away from everyone on the plane and hide so he could cry his heart out, and he didn’t want anyone else finding him while he was out here, alone and vulnerable and  _ just trying to learn who he was _ . 

He found himself in a back alley, dark and damp and smelling overbearingly of urine and vomit, but he didn’t care; it meant he could curl up behind the piles of rain-soaked cardboard and cry. 

Winter dragged his feet to the cardboard, but he didn’t hide himself behind them like he’d planned; instead, he found himself face-to-claws with a big, battle-torn alley cat and her litter of kittens not even half the size of his flesh hand. 

Winter’s heart started racing again, his mouth dry and his hands clenching as he realised that there was nobody around this time; he could take the cats and keep them and  _ love _ them. 

Scooping up the box the kittens were in was easy; he kept it under his flesh arm protectively, and with his metal arm, he scooped up the hissing, scratching momma cat and raced back to the plane as excitement  _ thrummed  _ through his body. 

Winter found everyone gathered in what he had come to learn was the  _ social  _ room, where everyone sat together and talked and spent time with each other. Brock wasn’t present, and on the way, his sensitive hearing could make out that everyone else was together and talking about him, worried about where he had disappeared to since he’d wandered away from the plane for the first time since Brock had been letting him go outside on his own. 

Winter almost broke the door down in his haste to get inside and show everyone his new pets. His mind was focused, his attention on only one thing, and even Steve standing next to Coulson did nothing to snap Winter’s attention span away from the cats. 

Winter presented the box of kittens like an alcoholic would thrust his last five dollars at the first person offering him a beer or two. He kept the mother cat under his arm still, not bothered in the least by her biting and clawing his metal arm, yowling and screeching and  _ terrifying  _ to see, honestly. 

But all Winter did was move the mother cat to his chest so he could hug her tight, a silly,  _ pleased  _ smile on his face as he did so despite the claws digging into him. 

“James…” Coulson frowned. He shook his head. “James, where did you find these cats?” 

“Mine,” was all Winter knew to reply with. His smile was bright, excited, his eyes shining with more life than they’d ever really seen in them before. “Mine.” 

Coulson flinched. Carefully, he thought about his words before he murmured, “James, this isn’t really the best place for animals…” 

It was Winter’s turn to frown now, not understanding. “But… Mine…?” 

“If you want to have a pet, I’ll buy you a goldfish, James, but cats are…” Coulson cleared his throat as he watched the cat twist herself in Winter’s arms to claw deep scratches down Winter’s cheek, “...probably not a good idea…” 

Winter, unaffected completely by his face being scratched up - he’d been through far worse; it was nothing more than a minor annoyance to him by this point in his life - felt his eyes tear up. He crumpled forward, dropping to his knees as he hugged the cat tight to him and cried. “Mine…! Mine!” 

“Somebody go get Rumlow,” Winter heard Coulson whisper before Coulson also dropped to his knees to touch Winter’s shoulder. Steve joined him, trying to calm Winter with a smile. “James… James, I think the cats should be taken to an animal shelter where they’ll be looked after and adopted to nice people. Okay?” 

“No!” Winter wailed fearfully. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he cried, “She’s ugly! People will hate her and be  _ mean  _ to her! No nice people! Only  _ mean _ !” 

“Why do you think that, Buck?” Steve whispered. Deep down, he already knew the answer. 

“Because she’s ugly and  _ scary _ ! Like  _ me _ !” Winter wailed. 

By now, Brock had been summoned into the room, and he made a beeline straight for Winter. He cut Steve off when Steve tried to reply, not wanting Steve to be the one to calm Winter. “But  _ I  _ like you, Wints. Don’t I? And so does everyone here.” 

“Yes…” Winter’s voice was so tiny, so shy and fearful and  _ ashamed _ . His distrustful eyes betrayed his response. 

“Right. So maybe the cats will find someone to love them, too, Wints.” 

“But  _ I  _ love them!” Winter protested. “ _ Mine _ !” 

“Winter, you’re not keepin’ alley cats; they’re disease-ridden and nasty.” 

“But you kept  _ me _ !” Winter pleaded. “I want to keep them, too!” 

“How about I go with you to take the cats to the shelter and you can see how happy all the animals are there?” Steve offered, knowing that Brock likely wouldn’t go; from what he’d been overhearing from the telecoms lately, it was a miracle for Brock to even get out of bed. “It’ll be really good for them, Buck; they’ll get loving families in no time, I’m sure.” 

Brock didn’t give Winter a chance to reply. “Wints, you’re not a fuckin’ stinkin’ cat. Of  _ course  _ we keep you. But they’re just  _ cats _ .” 

“Rumlow, you’re not helping,” Steve growled. “Let  _ me  _ deal with him.” 

“No,” Brock hissed back. “ _ I’m  _ deain’ with him.” 

“You’re making things worse for him!” 

“I am  _ not! _ ” 

“You are! You’ve got no idea!” 

While the two bickered with each other, Winter dropped to his knees, a stricken look on his face as he hugged the still-aggressive cat tight, his eyes empty and staring at nothing. If they didn't want him to keep his cats, how long would it be before they wouldn’t want him, too…? 

The single sob that escaped Winter was what stopped the arguing, but it only paved the way for further uncertainty. 

***

“Of course, sir. They’ll receive medical treatment and fostered into loving homes until they can be adopted.” 

Steve turned to smile at Winter standing still and taut by his side as his eyes stayed focused entirely on the woman behind the counter. “See, Buck? The woman will make sure they’re okay. They’re going to be just fine.” 

Winter didn’t look convinced. He stared down at his feet now, frowning and shuffling foot-to-foot. He turned to Steve and whispered, “Promise…?” 

“I promise, Buck.” Steve turned back to the woman, giving her his best smile. “He’s allowed to have one cat. Can he please see the kittens so he can pick one?” 

“Certainly.” 

Winter didn’t say a word as he followed behind Steve to the room his box of kittens had been taken. He was silent as he peered down into the cages they’d been moved to, checking for the slightest hint that they weren’t being taken care of and abused. 

But Winter couldn’t find any hint. Not when they all looked so comfortable, wrapped up in tiny hand towels and fast asleep, so tiny and fragile and  _ vulnerable  _ that his heart ached at the thought of something happening to them. 

“These kittens are still very, very young, and without their mother, they’ll need to be hand-fed and watered,” the woman explained. “I can show you our other kittens that are old enough to be adopted and eat and drink on their own if you’d like.” 

Winter’s frown grew as he opened the cage closest to him and reached in to take the black-and-white kitten inside. He kept it in its little blanket, holding it so tenderly and resting it against his heart. He loved it - he was sure that was what the ache in his heart was - but… 

“Where is their mum…?” Winter whispered. 

“She is being examined by the vet, but being that she is feral, she will likely be euthan -” The woman cut off when Steve gave her a look and shook his head quickly. “Uhh…”

Steve turned to Winter and reached out to hold his shoulder. “Buck… She’s going to be  _ fine _ . She will live here forever, okay? Now which kitten do you want?” 

Winter’s eyes flicked through all of the cages, and every kitten he saw came with that same ache in his heart. But deep down, he knew which one he wanted. 

“I want… their momma cat…” Winter whispered. 

Steve was floored by the request; why would Winter want an aggressive, feral cat with half a missing ear and  _ scars  _ visible where her matted fur had fallen off somewhere in her life? He shook his head. “Why don’t you take a kitten, Buck? That way you can raise it and it’ll love you in return.” 

“No, I want her.” 

“Why…?” 

Winter took a deep breath, not sure if he wanted to explain his reasoning. “Because… She is like me… Please? I really want her…” 

“A feral cat with that level of aggression may never socialise,” the woman warned. “She will likely always be aggressive, and it can be a risk to your health and your life.” 

Steve didn’t miss the way Winter’s flesh fingers moved to cup his metal ones. Winter looked so fearful, yet so sad and  _ hopeful,  _ and it broke Steve’s heart. 

“But…” Winter licked his lips as he tried to form his sentence in his mind. “...People… said the same about me…” 

Steve threw his arm around Winter’s shoulders and held him against his side. He shook his head and sighed. “It’s different, Buck.” 

“It’s  _ not  _ different,” Winter argued, enunciated by the stomp of his foot against the ground. “I  _ want  _ her, Steve.” 

Steve sighed. He knew from decades past that once Bucky Barnes committed himself to something, there was no talking him out of it. He just hoped that Coulson wouldn’t throw him off the plane and into the middle of the ocean for what he was about to do. Reluctantly, he pulled his wallet from his jeans and murmured softly, “How much will the vet bills come to? I guess we’re taking her home…” 

***

Winter wasn’t surprised that no one seemed to like his cat. It was understandable; no one had really liked him at HYDRA either because they knew how scary he was. His cat was probably scary to his new friends, too, but that was okay; maybe they would come to like her just like they had come to like him and Brock. 

Steve showed Winter how to look after her. He showed him how to feed her and leave water for her, and he helped set up the cat tower Steve had stopped and bought for him on the way home. His cat - Stumpy, he had called her due to half her tail being missing - was hiding under the bed, but that was okay; if Winter tried hard enough, he was sure he could get her to love him. 

“Why is Steve here?” Winter asked, after an hour of trying to lure Stumpy out with a bag of cat treats. 

“Oh, uh…” Steve’s cheeks reddened, and he looked away, not wanting to tell Winter the real reason he had shown up. “I have a mission, Buck. That’s all.” 

Winter hummed thoughtfully before he nodded. “Okay.” 

Silence filled the room again as Winter stayed crouched on the floor, still shaking the cat treats. Steve sighed from where he’d been sitting in a chair, watching. He had to give credit to Winter’s level of patience; Steve would have given up long ago. 

“You know, Buck…” Steve was careful now, knowing how fragile Winter was. “Since I’m here and all… Do you want to come back to my room with me?” 

Winter looked over his shoulder at Steve. He looked back to Stumpy before returning his gaze to Steve and nodding. “Okay.” 

Steve smiled. He stood up and extended his hand for Winter to take, his heart racing when Winter did so. He led them back to his room, sitting Winter on the bed before climbing up to join him. 

“Let’s lay down together.” Steve wrapped his arms around Winter and lowered them both to the bed. They laid on their sides, their chests inches off touching, as they stared into each other’s eyes. Winter fidgeted shyly beneath the intensity of Steve’s gaze, his cheeks reddening and his pants feeling a tad tighter than they had earlier. 

Steve was the one to reach out with a slow hand and hold Winter by the back of his head, guiding him in for a deep kiss. Winter kissed back, his eyes wide and watching Steve’s face intently, as his flesh hand slowly moved to hold Steve by the bicep. 

Steve broke the kiss to pepper his lips all along Winter’s jaw and throat, nipping lightly before stopping to whisper, “I love you so much, Buck… So,  _ so  _ much.” 

Winter hummed at the words, but he gave no verbal response in return. It was okay; the way he snuggled in close to Steve and closed his eyes was enough. 

Steve smiled as he slowly brushed Winter’s hair out of his face. He kissed Winter’s forehead before he wrapped his arms around him and held him close, whispering. “Are you tired, Buck?” 

Winter hummed again, moving to hide his face against Steve’s throat, making sure his head was tucked safely beneath his chin. He pressed their bodies together, seeking out warmth his mind had forgotten but his body remembered. He closed his eyes, giving a content sigh as the events of the day crashed over him and lulled him into sleep. 

Steve stayed where he was, his arms holding Winter tight, but no matter how hard he tried to follow suit in falling asleep, there was too much excitement thrumming through him to be able to do so - his body’s obvious need was testimony to that. 

Steve reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone. He didn’t have headphones, so he made sure that the volume was muted before he brought up his internet browser and typed in a website he had become very familiarised with over time. He kept Winter in one arm, enjoying so much the way Winter’s head rested comfortably on top of his chest, so much like how when they were young and Steve was small enough to get away with always using Bucky’s chest as his favourite pillow. 

Steve found what he was after. He turned his head to the side, not wanting to shift his body and risk waking Winter up - not when he’d made his way to PornHub and found one of his favourite videos that reminded him so much of a time long since stolen from him. 

On his phone, he watched happily the way a man who looked so much like Bucky Barnes had before HYDRA had claimed him decades ago sat back on a bed, his legs spread and head tilted back as the blond man between his knees sucked gently on his arousal. 

Steve bit back a moan as his mind wandered decades back to nights hidden behind tents and buildings in army camps, nights spent with his mouth over Bucky’s to swallow every sound he made as he was fucked slowly and gently.  There was nothing he wouldn’t give to be able to recreate those memories, to lay Winter -  _ Bucky  _ \- out, flat on his back, pushing his knees apart and guiding himself inside. 

...But that wasn’t going to happen for a long time - perhaps never  _ would  _ happen again - and Steve hated thinking about the fact that Winter  _ probably  _ wouldn’t be too happy with Steve watching porn right beside him. 

But Steve didn’t turn his phone off. No. He stayed where he was, his eyes glued to the screen as he traced tiny circles against Winter’s chest, needing to  _ feel  _ that he was still there and truly not buried in an icy, unmarked grave somewhere like he’d believed for too long. 

But Winter, who wasn’t used to sleeping next to anyone but Brock and wasn’t accustomed to anyone else’s sleeping behaviours, was still in a light, alert slumber, ready to wake at the tiniest hint of trouble. So when Steve’s breathing hitched, Winter’s eyes snapped open to search for the danger that had dared hurt Steve. 

Winter didn’t find any danger, but he did find himself staring at Steve’s phone, unable to tear his eyes away from the tongue that had darted out to lick gentle lines up another man’s erection. 

Steve jumped twenty feet into the air at Winter’s sad, confused whisper. “That’s what they always made me do to them…” 

Steve tried to turn his phone off, to shove it anywhere that Winter wouldn’t see it, but Winter’s metal hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, holding his hand in the air so he could keep watching the phone. “Buck, I…!” 

Winter’s sad eyes finally dragged away to meet Steve’s gaze. “I hate them using my mouth. But Brock likes to do it to me. Why, Steve?” 

Steve didn’t know how to reply. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly for several seconds until he finally got out, “Because what they did to you was  _ wrong,  _ Bucky, but Rumlow  _ loves  _ you.” 

Winter frowned. He shook his head, a soft whine escaping him. “Steve… It… It’s scary… It  _ hurts _ …!” 

“No. Not for someone you love,” Steve whispered. He rolled over so he could brush his fingertips against Winter’s cheek. “It’s  _ pleasurable  _ when it’s with someone you love.” 

Winter’s gaze dropped down to the bed sheets. His flesh fingers curled into the fabric, his frown deepening as if he couldn’t trust that Steve was telling him the truth. He said nothing, not for the longest time, but when he finally forced something out, it was a tiny, uncertain, “Can I watch with you…?” 

Steve wondered if he should say yes. If he did, Winter could potentially trigger himself. But if he didn’t… 

Well, seeing it for himself might be the only way for Winter to learn that sex wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to be a terrifying thing. 

Winter watched the video in silence. His eyes never left the screen, and his face never showed anything other than blankness. Steve thought for sure that it was only upsetting him, so when the video finished and he went to put the phone away, he was surprised by Winter’s tiny voice murmuring, “No… I want… to watch it again…” 

Steve replayed the video and held it out in front of them. Winter’s eyes stuck like glue to it again, but this time, the further in to the video they got, the more Steve recognised the lust building so slowly in Winter’s eyes. 

“Buck?” Steve reached out to cup Winter’s cheek and turn him to face him. “You like this?” 

Winter nodded. He swallowed heavily past a lump in his throat before he whispered, “Brock… is like this with me…” 

“You mean he’s gentle?” Steve tried to pretend he didn’t feel a surge of jealousy and dislike when Winter nodded. “Of course he’s gentle with you, Buck; he  _ loves  _ you.” 

Winter looked back at the video. He could feel the way his jeans were tightening, but the thought of Brock doing this to him… 

Winter reached down to unbutton his jeans, too uncomfortably tight as he recalled the last time Brock had taken him into his mouth. 

Steve wasn’t oblivious to Winter’s actions, and trying his best to swallow down every negative emotion he felt about it, he whispered, “Do you like it when Rumlow sucks you…?” 

Winter nodded. His eyes darted to the side as he whispered, “I want… Brock to do it more, Steve…” 

“You don’t ask him?” 

Winter shook his head. “I don’t like him doing it. It’s scary and it hurts.” 

Steve chuckled fondly. He reached out to ruffle Winter’s hair, sliding the soft, clean locks between his fingers as he smiled. “Buck. What did I just say? It’ll be  _ good  _ for  _ both  _ of you. I promise you that if he  _ really  _ doesn’t like it, he wouldn’t do it.” 

Winter was still frowning, not entirely trustful of Steve’s words still, but enough that he could murmur, “Am I allowed to ask him for it, Steve…?” 

“Of course you are, Buck; you just can’t force anyone to do it to you.” Steve moved closer and nuzzled his nose against Winter’s cheek. “He does it to you because he loves you.” 

“And…” Winter swallowed past the lump again, his eyes dilated with fear as he whispered, “...you… You love me… too…?” 

“Yes.” 

Winter seemed to have frozen for twenty-six seconds - Steve knew; he counted all of Winter’s significant silences - before he whispered, “Will you do it, too…?” 

“You want me to suck you?” 

Winter nodded. “Like… in the movie.” 

Steve didn’t waste any time getting Winter’s clothing from his body; it had been too long, and now that he was finally getting proper consent from Winter, Steve wasn’t going to waste a second longer. 

Winter was hard and aching in Steve’s hand. Steve went to take him straight into his mouth before he was stopped by Winter’s hand coming to ghost to flesh fingertips against the side of his own cock, just above the base of his arousal. 

“I like it here…” Winter whispered. “Feels good, Steve…” 

Steve nodded. He asked no questions - now was no time to delve into painful topics - as he lowered his face to the erection and opened his mouth wide. He swallowed Winter whole, in one go, swallowing all the way down until he finally buried his nose in amongst the curls of pubic hair at Winter’s base. 

Winter’s breath hitched. He readjusted his body so that he was on his back, his head on the pillow and fanned by his long hair. He moved his metal arm up to crook it just above his head, holding on to the headboard bars in a grip no measly headboard could survive, and lowered his flesh hand to hold the back of Steve’s head lightly. 

Winter hummed at the feeling around his erection. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly, satisfied with what he was feeling. His fingers rubbed into Steve’s hair, enjoying the softness against his calloused fingertips. His hips moved of their own accord, quickly setting a fast, almost frantic pace that would have choked anyone without the serum. 

Steve didn’t slow Winter down. He didn’t even  _ try _ to. His hands snaked up onto the bed to hold Winter’s hips in a soft, almost loose grip, but he never tried to restrain the movements; he was simply holding on to his precious Bucky after so long apart. 

Winter’s breath was stuttering in his throat. His eyes were wide and dilated as they stared up at the roof. Above his head, he heard the crunch of the bed frame shattering in his grip. His mind was so blank, yet so full at the same time, screaming with a pleasure he had no memory of feeling before.

“Steve…!” Winter keened, breathless. “Steve…! I’m going to…  _ S-steve…! _ ” 

Steve pulled back just in time to avoid being smacked in the face with Winter’s metal hand as he reached down to grip the base of his arousal with crushing force. Steve flinched at the sight, terrified that Winter was going to snap his own dick in half if he didn’t let go. 

“Bucky, you have to let go,” Steve instructed. He frowned when Winter shook his head, his eyes wide and frightened. “Buck. You’re going to hurt yourself. Come on.” 

Again, Winter shook his head, his chest heaving with the force of his pleasure and arousal combined. “No.” 

“Why not?” Steve wanted to reach out and pry Winter’s hand away from his rapidly-purpling cock, but it could potentially cause more issues than it would resolve. “Do you not want to come?” 

Winter frowned. “...” 

“Orgasm,” Steve tried, just in case Winter didn’t understand the terminology just yet. “You know… When you… When you  _ come _ …” 

Winter’s whisper was so shy, so scared, and Steve just wished he could take his frustrations out on some more HYDRA soldiers. “Brock tells me to come, Steve…” 

“Do you not like to come?” Steve whispered back. 

Winter shook his head and whispered sadly, “I have not done anything to be rewarded for, Steve…” 

“Buck…” Steve shook his head. “Bucky,  _ come _ .” 

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to have been taken that way, but Winter regarded the firm word as an order. He whined loudly and squeezed his eyes shut as he loosened his grip just enough to let himself orgasm. He grit his teeth, turning his head to the side as he tried to pretend he couldn’t feel hot semen leaking from his arousal. 

“Bucky…” Steve moved up the bed to lay next to Winter and whisper, “What this is… Whoever’s told you that you… Buck… This  _ isn’t  _ a reward. It’s  _ love _ .” 

Winter flinched. “But they…” 

“No.” Steve took Winter’s lips in a desperate, hungry kiss. “No.  _ Gods  _ no, Buck. They used and  _ abused  _ you. But this… Between us… This is  _ love _ .” 

“Love…” The words felt foreign on Winter’s tongue. Hell, they felt foreign to his  _ brain _ . 

Steve nodded. He smiled as he brushed the back of his fingers against Winter’s cheek. “Yes. Love. Because I love you so much, Buck, and I want you to feel good all the time.” 

Winter dropped his head and stared at his lap, not sure how to respond. Finally, after several minutes of thinking about it, he licked his lips, raised his head again, and whispered, “I never feel good, Steve… Always…  _ empty _ .” 

Steve moved his hand to rest against Winter’s knee as he whispered, “Is that why you like to masturbate so much now, Buck? It’s something for you to feel…?” 

Winter nodded. “Feels…  _ calm _ , Steve…” 

“You feel calm?” Steve continued on when he received a nod in response. “What else do you feel?” 

“...” Winter licked his lips as he thought about the question. When he found an answer, his eyes met Steve’s. “ _ Happy _ .” 

Steve moved to take Winter into his arms again so he could murmur, “Buck… You know you’re allowed to ask for these things, right?” 

Winter frowned. “...” 

“It’s true,” Steve promised. “If you want to feel good, you’re  _ allowed  _ to feel good. Rumlow won’t mind helping you feel good, Buck; you’ve just got to ask him.” 

Winter shook his head, and without hesitation, he murmured, “Brock hates it, Steve; he’s told me. He said people hurt him like they hurt me, Steve… I don’t want him to be scared like me, Steve.” 

Steve couldn’t deny the twinge of sympathy he felt for Rumlow at those words, but still… This was about Winter, about the man who had had Bucky Barnes stripped away from his very bones. Not about someone who had once been a terrorist and probably would have  _ stayed  _ a terrorist to the very end had he not happened to be put in charge of someone else. 

“Buck, if you don’t want to ask Rumlow, well…” Steve’s fingertips stroked along Winter’s knee, “...I don’t mind if you ask  _ me _ .” 

Winter’s eyes were so sad, desperate and pleading all at once. He gave a small nod as he mumbled, “I want… to feel…” 

“To feel?  _ Just,  _ to feel…?” Steve gave a sad sigh when Winter nodded, but he didn’t otherwise press the issue; instead, all he did was slide his hand up to rest just above Winter’s groin and whisper, “I can make you feel  _ good,  _ Buck. But only if you want me to.” 

Winter didn’t hesitate to nod. “I want to feel good, Steve.”

“Then let me help you feel good,” Steve whispered back. He waited until he received another nod before he moved himself to lay over Winter and draw him into a deep kiss. 

Winter reciprocated right away, closing his eyes and letting Steve’s weight rest on top of him. He gave a tiny moan when he felt calloused fingertips gliding up against his hip and coming to trace circles against his abdomen. He broke the kiss to turn his head to the side and whimper, “Brock…” 

“Hmm?” Steve busied himself with peppering tiny kisses along Winter’s neck. “What about him?” 

“He’ll be… He’ll be…” Winter’s train of thought was interrupted at Steve nibbling on his adam’s apple. He gave another moan, his hips rocking forward ever-so-slightly in search of friction. 

Steve chuckled. He glided his hand back down to Winter’s groin, kneading the half-hardened flesh beneath his fingers just the way he remembered Bucky liking it. “Forget him, Buck. It’s just you and me here right now.” 

Winter hummed. He squeezed his eyes shut again, mumbling something incomprehensible before giving a pleased sigh. He ignored the fingers trailing down his bottom and to his entrance; he trusted Steve, and he knew that Steve wasn’t like - 

Winter jolted violently at the pressure he felt at his entrance. He whimpered and tried to back away, but Steve held him in place. He wanted to say no, to beg and scream and shout about how he didn’t want to feel the pain of being penetrated ever again, but he knew he wasn’t allowed, knew that if he were to protest against his handler’s desires of his body, he would be punished with pain worse than it would have been to just submit in the first place. 

But Steve, who knew what the problem was, pulled Winter into his arms and shushed him with all the love and tenderness he had for Bucky. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, Buck. I promise.” 

Winter shivered. It wasn’t okay, but if that was what Steve wanted… 

Winter bowed his head and forced his body to relax, allowing Steve to do whatever he wanted. But Steve, who wasn’t stupid and who  _ knew  _ Bucky Barnes, stayed where he was, moving only to brush hair from Winter’s face. 

“Buck, I want to try something with you, okay?” Steve’s voice was so soft and gentle, Winter couldn’t help but relax. “It might be a bit scary for you at first, but I want you to tell me if you like it and want me to keep going, or if you want me to stop, okay? If you don’t like it, there are other things we can do together.” 

Winter’s nod was wary, hesitant. His shoulders were taut, and when Steve parted Winter’s knees again to kneel between them, only for his head to disappear, Winter couldn’t deny the way his breath caught fearfully in his throat. 

There were a lot of things that Steve could do to him right now - a lot of things that other men had done to him and contributed to his fear of intimacy - but nothing that Winter could have expected would have ever prepared him for the soft lick against his entrance. 

Winter gasped loudly and jolted. His knees instinctively bunched together, but Steve was gentle when he pushed them apart again to give him entrance. Winter raised his head, trying to see what it was that Steve was doing to him, but he couldn’t see past the tousle of blond between his legs.

“Steve…?” Winter groaned softly when Steve lifted his head to face him. His pupils dilated with lust, and it took everything he had to keep himself from coming at the way Steve licked his lips as if he’d just enjoyed a delicious meal. “What are… What is…?” 

Steve smiled. “You used to love this, Buck. You… On your back and your legs spread… Begging me to eat you out… Oh, baby, I’ve missed the taste of you…” 

Winter moaned. His head dropped back to his pillow as he tried to steady his heaving chest, but his breathing wasn’t coming easily right now. “S-steve…” 

“I know, Buck. I know how much you love this,” Steve whispered, not even trying to hide the husk in his voice. “I love this, too, sweetheart. You’re always so beautiful when I eat you up. I love you so much.” 

Winter whimpered. He grit his teeth and squeezed his eyes tight at the sudden surge of blood through his cock. His toes curled, and even without Steve touching him, he swore he felt overwhelming pleasure course through his body. “Steve… Steve… Stevie…!” 

Steve reached out to stroke Winter’s arousal, making sure to pay special attention to the spot Winter had shown him earlier. He ducked his head again, his tongue parting his lips and gently working its way inside of Winter’s body. 

Winter keened positively when he felt the wet intrusion. His eyes snapped open, his back arching off the bed. He was sure his mouth dried in an instant. “I-I…! I…!” 

Steve didn’t pull out to say anything, to murmur any encouragements; Winter was doing well, especially if the way his flesh fingers shot out and yanked painfully hard at his hair was anything to go by. Instead, he focused on wriggling his tongue, searching for the same spot that had driven Bucky crazy so many years ago. 

There was tissue scarring on the inside. Significant scarring, if Steve was able to recognise it with only his tongue in there. The walls were calloused and bumpy, and the more Steve poked and prodded, the more he hoped that decades of rape hadn’t been enough to damage Winter’s insides to the point he would never again feel pleasure from making love. 

A strangled groan from above Steve was enough to guess that maybe, just maybe, Winter was still capable of being pleasured anally - but how well, Steve didn’t know just yet. 

Steve paid careful attention to that same spot, wriggling his tongue and flicking it as best he could. Winter wasn’t responding as wonderfully as he once did - a worrying sign, but not too worrying since Steve still recognised his small noises of pleasure. Besides, there was always the possibility that Winter was holding himself back from feeling it as intensely as he should have. 

Steve pulled his mouth away and smiled. “Do you like it, Buck?” 

Winter was breathless as he gave a small nod. “Yes…” 

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes…” 

“Does it… Is it as pleasurable as you think it should be…?” 

A long moment of silence. “...I… don’t know…” 

Steve offered a more strained smile this time. “It’s okay, Buck. You’ll learn. Do you… Do you want to make love with me?” 

Winter nodded. He rolled himself onto his hands and knees and held himself there, closing his eyes and waiting for Steve to have his way with him. But when Steve’s gentle voice from behind him told him no, and he was gently manoeuvred onto his back again, he couldn’t help but frown in misunderstanding. 

“I want to see your face when I make love to you, Buck,” Steve whispered. “You are more than just somewhere to warm my… My… I love you, Bucky. I love you. I love you.” 

Winter didn’t understand the warm feeling in his chest at those words, but he was sure he was coming to learn  _ something  _ when Steve leaned over him again and took him into a deep kiss that never seemed to end until Steve’s fingers had stretched him open and a lubed arousal was pressing at his entrance. 

Steve broke the kiss, resting their cheeks together so he could whisper, “Is it okay, Buck…? For me to make love to you…?” 

Winter gave a fevered nod, his wide, unseeing eyes staring up at the roof as his jaw hung slack. “I love you, Steve. I want… I want… I want to… I want you to make love to me…” 

That was all the encouragement Steve needed to slide himself inside, all the way to the hilt with his mouth over Winter’s again. Winter’s breathing was heavy, his whole body trembling, flesh and metal fingertips alike digging into Steve’s biceps with enough strength to leave bruises even with the serum. 

But Winter was the first one to start moving, much to Steve’s surprise. He rocked himself back onto the intrusion, his small noises swallowed by Steve’s own mouth against his as he came to realise that he had control in this moment, and Steve was  _ allowing  _ it. 

Steve’s thrusts, to start with, were small and slow, not daring to do anything else until he was certain that Winter could handle it. Winter was the one to start pushing himself back, harder and faster until he was almost hyperventilating for breath and he was spilling between their bodies once again. 

Steve stopped, holding himself still while Winter caught his breath. He kept their mouths joined, his fingers caressing Winter’s face with one hand and his other tenderly stroking Winter back into hardness once his refractory period should have been up. 

When Winter was hard and ready to go once again, Steve almost couldn’t believe just how desperate Winter was to keep himself impaled as deeply as possible. 

Winter broke the kiss the same time his hands grabbed Steve’s shoulders and dug his nails in. His eyes were wet, his cheeks damp with both sweat and tears as his eyes held a desperately frightened look to them, his mouth twisted in a silent scream. 

“B-buck…” Steve grunted as he focused on matching Winter’s strength with his own thrusts. “F-fuck… Oh, Buck, I-I love you…” 

Winter’s breathing was so strangled, so harsh and unyielding and  _ suffocating  _ that every word he tried to get out was an unintelligible whimper until finally, at those words, Winter gave a loud keen and spilled himself once more. 

Steve followed with his own release, grunting once before claiming Winter’s mouth as his own again as he came down from his high. He groaned softly, rolling off of Winter’s body to lay beside him and catch his breath, but Winter immediately followed the warmth and curled up on his chest, their bodies impossibly close as Winter stared ahead at the wall with unseeing eyes. 

“Buck…?” Steve stroked Winter’s hair again. “You okay?” 

Winter was silent for so long, Steve was sure he had broken him. “It was different, Steve.” 

Steve didn’t know how to respond, so he went with what felt natural to him. “Of course it was different, Buck. It was with me.” 

“It wasn’t painful.” Winter’s mumbles were muffled by Steve’s pec, but that was okay; he seemed too tired to feel much else other than a post-orgasm haze. 

“No, because I love you and I never want to hurt you,” Steve promised. He kissed Winter’s temple as if to prove his point. “I love you so much that I only ever want you to feel good, Buck.” 

“Feel good…?” Winter frowned. “...Feels good when you tell me nice things…” 

“Feels good in your heart?” Steve continued at the nod he received. “What about physically? In your body? Does it feel good for me to touch you?”

“...” Winter took a while to convey his thoughts. “A little bit. Feels better when you talk to me… A-and kiss me…” 

Ah, so Winter needed to feel  _ emotions  _ to enjoy sex - to feel  _ loved _ , Steve realised. It made sense; he probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it if Steve didn’t make sure he knew just how loved he was. Steve smiled. He kissed the corner of Winter’s mouth. “That’s because I love you, Buck. That’s how sex is  _ supposed  _ to be.” 

Winter gave a content sigh and closed his eyes, snuggling closer into Steve. He mumbled something that Steve couldn’t catch, and just like that, he was out like a light. 

Steve held Winter closer, giving his own happy smile as he prepared to follow Winter into sleep. But in their happy, post-orgasm states, neither of them noticed the door to the bedroom slightly ajar from where it had been closed fully earlier. 


	26. Chapter 26

Steve had almost believed that the best decision of his life was to decide to watch porn with Winter asleep on his chest. It had seemed to lead to a breakthrough, some good sex, and a nice nap together that had evolved into slow, sleepy, but gentle, loving sex after they’d woken up.

Steve had been on top of the world. ...Or at least, he had been before Winter had reached his orgasm and cried out for Rumlow rather than Steve.

“Buck…” Steve felt uncomfortable, not sure how to accept the turn of events. Winter knew no better, but at the same time, shouldn’t he… have known instinctively to cry out for Steve…? “I…”

Winter’s sigh was pleased, happy. When he rolled himself onto Steve’s chest, his expression was so blissed out, Steve wondered in the back of his mind if someone had come into the room and doped him up as they’d slept. “Steve…”

Steve patted Winter’s head as he whispered, “Were you thinking about Rumlow, Bucky…?”

Winter nodded. Tiredly, he mumbled, “Want to… make love with Brock, too…”

“Then you can ask him, but… If we’re making love together, you should be thinking about me…” Steve tried to explain gently, but no matter what angle he took to try and make Winter understand, all it seemed to do was confuse him more and more until Winter nervously excused himself from the room and Steve’s presence so he could go and find Brock.

Winter found him in the _socialising room,_ curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped tight around him, and his head in Simmons’ lap as Simmons played with his hair. Coulson was leaning against the arm of the couch, his arms folded against his chest as he stared down at the two with concern.

When Winter approached, he froze when Brock sat in the blink of an eye and screamed, “Fuck off, Wints! Go back to suckin’ Rogers’ cock!”

Winter frowned. Truly not understanding, he asked the only thing he could associate with this sequence of events. “Do you want me to suck yours, too, Brock?”

Brock’s face was red from rage and tears. “Go fuck yourself, Winter; we all know you don’t return the fuckin’ favour!”

“Hey.” Coulson moved to stand in Brock’s direct line of sight to try and hide Winter’s presence. “No need for that, Rumlow. Calm down.”

“Don’t fuckin’ tell me to calm down when he should _know_ better!” Brock snapped. A fresh wave of tears fell from his eyes now. “Fuckin’ around behind my back like that… Why don’t you just go fuckin’ with _everyone_ here, Winter?! You wanna fuck Simmons while she’s here?!”

“I told you I’m not touching him, Rumlow! How _dare_ you -” Simmons jerked away from Brock and sputtered out her own disbelief before Coulson cut her off.

“Enough!” It wasn’t often Coulson raised his voice to his team, but this was one occasion he was glad he was only dealing with a few members rather than them all, because he knew the situation was quickly spiralling out of control. “Rumlow, you _don’t_ talk about things like this! You -”

“- He _wants_ to fuck her!” Brock sobbed. “He _wants_ to! And _she_ probably _wants_ him to fuck her!”

“I don’t!” Simmons protested. “I would _never_ -”

“- Well, _he does_!” Brock snapped. “He wants to fuck everyone but _me_!”

“No, I don’t…” Winter whispered, staring down at his feet and trying so hard to keep himself from crying. “I don’t, Brock…”

“Rumlow, he’s an _adult_ ,” Coulson reminded. “An adult who doesn’t function well and can’r understand things properly, but an adult nonetheless. He’s making choices for himself now, and that’s a very good thing! Maybe he doesn’t understand how you feel about him and Steve together, so you need to _talk to him about it,_ Rumlow! He doesn’t _understand_!”

“He _does_ understand; he’s just bein’ a whore!” Brock accused. He ignored the gasp of hurt that escaped Winter, the loud crying that accompanied in a split second, and he opened his mouth to continue his verbal assault. But before he could say anything more, Coulson slapped him across the face, and Simmons’ backhand came almost immediately after.

“You _don’t_ talk to _anyone_ that way!” Coulson scolded. “Not if you want to stay on my team! We _respect_ each other, and we _don’t_ talk to each other this way! Apologise, Rumlow! You know what you just said isn’t true! _Apologise_!”

Brock sneered. With a voice full of loathing and disdain, he turned back to face Winter and snarl, “Sorry that you can’t go without a cock in your ass for two fuckin’ seconds, Wints.”

Brock was gone, Coulson and Simmons in too much shock to even stop him. Winter kept crying, harder than he had been at first.

“Bucky…” Simmons was the one to break the silence, her own eyes tearing up as she took in the pitiful sight before her. “I’m so sorry…”

Winter shook his head. “I made Brock mad…”

“It wasn’t you,” Coulson promised. “He has his own issues going on for him. But he should never have spoken to you that way.”

“Stop crying, Bucky; it’s okay,” Simmons tried to soothe. “It’s okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know!” Winter wailed. “That’s why I’m crying…! Brock keeps hurting and I can’t help him…!”

“Yes, you can,” Coulson promised. “Why do you think that you can’t?”

“I don’t know _how_ to help him…! He always looks after _me_ …!” Winter’s crying became more hysterical. “He always looks after me and I don’t know how to look after _him_ …! He keeps hurting and I don’t know what to do…!”

“James…” Coulson moved to stand beside Winter and put his hand on his shoulder. “You _do_ know how to help him. Okay? You have to be there for him, just like how he is always there for you. But you have to promise me that you won’t let him talk to you like that because that only upsets _both_ of you.”

Winter shook his head, trying to wipe his tears from his eyes. “I just want to help him…!”

“You can,” Coulson promised. “You _can_ help him. You’re probably the only one left in the world who _can_ , James.”

Winter’s next whimper was so pitiful, neither Coulson nor Simmons knew how to respond. “But what if he doesn’t _want_ to be helped…?”

***

Winter spent the rest of the day on his own, sitting in a corner of the socialising room with Stumpy in his arms. Stumpy had long-since given up on trying to maul Winter to death or, at the very least, escape his hold, and was laying limp against his chest, growling every time flesh fingers stroked along her head and down her back.

Winter hadn’t been talking to anyone. Not even Steve had been able to get through to him, and Steve was starting to wonder if what he’d done had truly been okay at all, or if he’d only been thinking with his dick again.

But somewhere just before dinnertime, the lights in the plane went out, and a chill ran down Winter’s spine.  

Winter was on his own, but he had no concern for himself or for Coulson and his crew – Steve would be with them, and he knew that Steve could protect them – but Brock…

Brock would be somewhere on his own, defenceless and likely to be hurt or killed. Winter couldn’t leave him, and even if it got him hurt or killed, he was prepared to do whatever it took to protect Brock.

It was an infiltration, to the same levels or possibly even higher than HYDRA’s raids had been where dozens of soldiers were let loose with the only end goal of bringing down an organisation. Somewhere in the back of Winter’s mind – or perhaps he knew it in his gut, he wasn’t sure – he knew that for the amount of men he had sent flying as he stomped through the corridors, it most likely _was_ a HYDRA attack.

The corridor outside of Brock and Winter’s bedroom was deserted, unusual when the rest of the plane was so swamped with men geared to the teeth like they’d been sent off for the war, Winter had almost had trouble moving around the plane.

But, as Winter stopped in front of the ajar door to his room, he heard voices coming from inside, two voices in particular that made his stomach churn at the memories they invoked.

“It would be so much easier on everyone if you just cooperated, Rumlow.” The calm taunting in the voice made Winter’s metal hand clench by his side, his flesh arm wrapped too gently around Stumpy to risk hurting her in his anger. “You can either get out of bed and help us out, or I’ll put a bullet through your brain where you lay like the pathetic mongrel you are.”

“Fuck off…” Brock’s voice had lost all fire, weak and numb and _lifeless,_ and Winter wondered for one brief second if it were _his_ fault. “Like I’d ever want to help you fuckin’ cunts out…”

“Oh, boss, what’s the matter? Not like you to give up and lay in the dirt like a beaten mutt.” There was laughter now, the second voice jeering. “No, you always had to run around and pretend your dick was the biggest one in the room when really, it was always the smallest.”

“Least my dick don’t fuckin’ smell so bad that no one would sit next to me on the way home after missions…”

Winter went to barge into the room and rip them all apart when he heard Brock’s pained cry at being pistol whipped across the face, but instead, he backed away and hid in the closet opposite the bedroom when he heard someone else approaching. His first instinct was to help Brock, but at the same time, his experience as the Winter Soldier had taught him that hasty decisions always led to failure, and ensuring that every tiny detail was known was the only way to ensure a successful mission – if Winter were to get Brock out of this, safe and unscathed, he must ensure that he understood everything and acted accordingly.

Winter deposited Stumpy onto the floor of the closet, knowing that he had to protect her, too, and the best way that he could do that was to make sure she was hidden. But who he watched pass by the closet and enter the bedroom…

It took every tiny bit of training as the Winter Soldier to keep him from flying out of the closet and ripping him limb from limb.

“What’s taking so long? Either he joins us and finishes what he signed up for, or he dies right here.”

“He was always pathetic. Even as the team leader, he was a piss-poor excuse for a Commander. He treated that thing like it was _human_.” Winter didn’t understand what it was they were talking about. Not until they continued talking, and Winter realised they were talking about _him_. “I went to his apartment one night when he took it home. Was hoping to get a quick fuck out of it – hell, I was prepared to fuck _Rumlow_ if I had to – but you know what he did with it? He let it on the fucking _furniture_ like it was _more_ than just a weapon. Like it was a _person_. I lost all respect for him that night.”

The laughter bouncing off the walls was raucous. Winter heard himself snarling, his teeth grinding together as his hands fisted so tightly, the nails of his flesh hand drew blood. He didn’t care that they were talking about him – not when he knew how terribly they were talking about _Brock_.

“You need to shut your _fuckin’ mouth_!” Brock roared, more lively than Winter had heard him since he’d been there. From the sounds audible, Brock was getting out of bed. “What you did to Winter, I’m gonna – I’ll fuckin’ _murder you_!”

Winter forgot everything he knew about being the Winter Soldier when he heard Brock’s anguished cry of pain. He rushed out of the closet, flying into the bedroom, and tackled the person closest to get him away from Brock. Jack Rollins hit the wall opposite them with enough force to have shattered it to pieces. He crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from the back of his head and covering his face, his elbow sticking out at an odd angle. He was down, but he wasn’t out, slowly pushing himself back to his feet to join the fray again.

Winter’s nostrils flared angrily, his chest and shoulders heaving with an anger he felt so intensely, it frightened him. He stared down the two men he remembered who had taken him from Brock and used the words on him and made him _attack Brock_.

Winter wanted to kill. He wanted to murder. He wanted to rip their spines from their bodies and use it to strangle them both to death.

But Winter didn’t. He stayed where he was, his whole body trembling violently, his breathing loud and harsh as he tried to keep himself from hyperventilating. He knew better – had been _taught_ better – and Winter didn’t want any more blood on his hands.

But _Brock_ …

“You fuckin’ sick cunts!” Brock’s hot temper had returned with a vengeance at the sight of the man who had almost poisoned Winter to death all that time ago. His gun was in his hand, the safety pulled back and his finger itching to pull the trigger.

But Winter stepped in front of him and stopped him, shaking his head. “Brock…”

“Get out of the fuckin’ way, Winter; did you forget what he _did_ to you?!” Brock snapped. “Fuckin’ _move_ so I can kill him!”

“No.” Winter wasn’t used to saying no. He wasn’t used to or _comfortable_ with the idea that he had a choice – that he could give his consent or withhold it if he so wanted to. He tried not to say no to anyone, to always be agreeable and do as they told him.

But now, Winter had to assert himself and make sure Brock knew that he could be a good person, too, and no one had to die.

“Fuck you, Winter! You think I’m gonna let them get away with what they did to you?!”

Winter cocked his head to the side. He gave a frown. “I want you to.”

“I don’t _care_ what you want, Winter! They hurt you, and I’m gonna _kill them_ for it!”

Winter reached out to snatch the gun from Brock’s hand and hold it out of his reach. He shook his head again and moved to keep Brock blocked behind his mass. “No.”

“How sweet. Rumlow, he doesn’t want you to get hurt.” The sick smile curled at the man’s lips, his older, gruffer looking companion smirking. “He’s like a big, dumb animal. Sweet, but stupid. It’s almost endearing, isn’t it?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Brock growled. He stopped trying to reach up for his gun and instead pretended that he knew it was pointless trying to take it back, but he would never admit that Winter was talking him down without even _saying a fuckin’ thing_.

“He brought him right to us. Again!” The companion’s laughter was loud, almost blood-curdling to a point. Brock felt himself want nothing more than to kill him on the spot. “Just kill Rumlow now. We got what we came for.”

“No need to be so hasty. Rumlow would make a good ally for us – he’s been on the inside; imagine all the secrets he could spill to us. Besides, surely he’s missed his friend and wants to spend a little time with Rollins before he dies.”

Winter turned away from Brock to observe the three again. Rollins, who Winter had been told had been jailed but must have been broken out, was staring at him with that same cold, loathing expression he’d always donned towards him.

But the other two… Winter couldn’t find the words on his tongue, but in a past life he would have recognised it; _malicious_.

But Winter didn’t want to fight. He wanted to protect Brock and Stumpy and his new friends, and he didn’t want to hurt _anyone._ “Go away. I will hurt you.”

“We have the words, and all we have to do is utter them,” came the unwelcome reminder that no matter how hard Winter tried, he was always going to be a slave to the words. “You can come with us quietly, and we’ll think about letting Rumlow live. But if you resist…”

Rollins moved fast, faster than Winter remembered him moving. And Winter, who had been so concerned about the words, failed to react in time and avoid the magnetic cuff that had been thrown at his metal arm and consequently dragged him against the metal filing cabinet beside him, reinforced to withstand even Winter’s brute force against it.

Rollins moved like a snake, and all Winter could do was tug helplessly at his wrist to try and free himself, to no avail. Winter was helpless to watch as Rollins produced those same voltage shockers that had often been used on missions to subdue his erratic behaviour. He knew what they were, knew that even if they were never going to be as powerful as the ones that had been used on him in _the chair,_ they were still very high voltage, enough to bring him to his knees at the very sight of them.

And to see Rollins, overpowering Brock with so much ease, he may as well have been reading a newspaper, Winter could only scream as he realised what was about to happen.

Brock’s screams were horrific as Jack held the plates to Brock’s temples, shocking him enough to have his entire body jerking so violently, looking like he were being ripped apart. And then, Brock fell silent, dropping to the floor like a heavy sack of potatoes, and not moving again outside of violent, terrifying twitches.

Winter’s lips twisted into a feral growl as a sound so violent escaped him, even Rollins took steps back from him. Winter lunged, ripping the filing cabinet from the wall and dragging it with him. He ignored the words hastily screamed at him, trying to get him under control before he killed them all, but before the words could be finished, Rollins took out his own gun and shot Brock in the head three times, as if it would stop Winter in his tracks instead of only making him see red.

Winter’s roar was deafening, and he went straight for Rollins, grabbing him by the throat and _squeezing,_ no longer caring for the trigger words still being screamed and focusing only on killing Rollins. But before he could accomplish that, Steve and the rest of the crew rushed into the room. There was a scuffle that Winter didn’t pay attention to; only trying to get back past Steve and at Rollins to finish the job. But Steve didn’t let him. Instead, Steve broke the cuff and freed him from the filing cabinet.

Winter, at his newfound freedom, changed course and went straight for Brock instead. He pulled the lifeless body into his arms, holding him tight against his chest, his eyes wide and unfocused as he kept his arms around him and whimpered.

“Help…” Winter whimpered, staring at the bloodied mess that was Brock’s head. “Help… _Help! Help him! Please!_ ”

Winter felt someone try and take Brock from him, so his hold only tightened on him.

“Bucky, you’ve got to let him go so we can help him!”

“No! No, don’t take him! Don’t take him from me!” Winter screamed. “Don’t take him!”

“Bucky, he’s dying! Let him go; he needs medical treatment!”

Winter couldn’t remember ever crying so hysterically before. Not when Stevie flew away, not at the memories that slowly entered his mind…

Winter was crying so hard, he vomited.

***

“Things are rocky, Bucky. He’s pulled through so far, but… He still might not make it.”

The rhythmic beeping of Brock’s life support was the only sound in the infirmary that Winter was able to focus on. He stared down at his lap, barely feeling the chair underneath him he was sitting in. He chewed at his lip, rocking himself slightly as he tried to reassure himself that Brock wasn’t dead, and he wasn’t going to leave him alone.

Steve was outside, as was the rest of the crew, leaving only Simmons to tell Winter everything. In a way, it was probably a blessing.

“But…” Winter bit through his lip before he growled and moved his eyes up to meet Simmons’ gaze. “…Brock… is still alive…?”

“Yes. But… Bucky, he’s suffered a very traumatic wound to his brain,” Simmons murmured, hoping that she was being comforting enough for him. “He’s alive _now,_ but he… He may not make it through the night. Or the next day. …Or… He may not make it _today_ …”

“But… He’s alive.” Winter couldn’t understand properly what Simmons was trying to tell him. Deep down, he knew that she was warning him beforehand that Brock might be leaving him alone after all, but…

In Winter’s mind, he didn’t know how to accept anything but that Brock was still alive in this very moment.

“He’s suffered three heart attacks, most likely brought on from the voltage to his brain.” Simmons winced as she realised just how agonising it must have been for Winter to have endured so often if Brock hadn’t even taken _half_ the voltage he had. “And the bullets have caused a lot of damage. Bucky, even if he pulls through… There’s no telling what he’s going to be like.”

Winter frowned. Without missing a beat, he asked, “Are you afraid of him?”

“No, Bucky, why would we –“

“- Afraid of me…” Winter frowned. “Scared. But I… I don’t… I do not want to hurt anyone. Brock… I love Brock. I want to look after him.”

“Of course you can look after him, but –“

“- I want Stumpy.” Winter’s frown grew. “I want Stumpy, and I want to be alone with Stumpy and Brock.”

“What about Steve?”

“No Steve. I have… to look after Brock. Steve… Steve not… Not… No. Only Brock.”

Simmons could hear the way Winter’s throat was tightening with every word. She could see the tears welling in his eyes, threatening to spill. She quietly excused herself, knowing that Winter needed time to process what had happened.

“Wait.”

Simmons turned back around at Winter’s frightened whimper. She offered him a small smile. “Yes?”

“…” Winter’s sad eyes travelled back to Brock’s lifeless form, in the hospital gurney next to him and hooked up to so many different tubes, it was frightening. He watched helplessly the way Brock’s chest heaved with every laboured breath as he whispered, “What can… I do to help him…?”

Simmons felt so sad at the question. There really wasn’t anything Winter could do; if Brock lived or died, Winter would have little influence over it either way. But she had to say something. “Hold his hand and talk to him, Bucky. It’ll comfort him.”

Winter nodded. He reached out to take Brock’s hand and hold it gently, so gently, flesh on flesh and as tender as when he’d held Stevie the duckling. He didn’t know what to talk about, what to say, what Brock would want to hear and what would only annoy him.

So Winter settled on telling Brock about himself, about little things he remembered of his past self and his worries and fears for the future. His interests, what he wanted to try, and about the last book he’d read and why it had made him cry to read the main character finding his purpose for living.

Brock’s eyes never opened, his breathing remained laboured, and his heart rate monitor fluctuated up and down. But Winter never stopped talking about he’d talked himself into exhaustion, and his grasp on the English language became too difficult and he found himself reverting back to Russian.

Winter was mindful of all the cords as he gently pulled himself up onto the bed and wrapped himself around Brock protectively, holding him against his body and ready to fight to the death to protect him.


	27. Chapter 27

The scariest thing that Winter could remember – scarier even than falling from the train – was the way Brock’s eyes would flutter open for all of two seconds before falling closed again, with no other sign that he was still alive apart from the rise and fall of his chest. 

It had been three weeks. Three weeks of Winter staying loyally by Brock’s side and not leaving for anything until Steve or the girls came and dragged him from the infirmary to feed him and give him a bath and make sure he’d toileted before letting him return. 

Those three weeks had consisted of very little. Brock didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. A coma, Simmons had told Winter once. Winter didn’t remember what a coma was, but that was okay; he stayed by Brock’s side, never letting go of his hand and whispering even the smallest thoughts to cross his mind.

Brock’s eyes were doing the fluttering thing again, but Winter had learned to not pay too much attention to it because it would stop as quickly as it had begun anyway. But that night, not long after Skye had been in to take Winter to the dinner table and make sure he ate all of his soup and bread rolls, after Skye had given him a bath and tried to blow dry his hair but Winter had only growled at her in his dislike for the noise, Brock’s fingers twitched too. 

Winter, from where he sat beside the bed, his metal fingers playing with his still-damp hair, and his flesh nails clawing at the metal ridge where the plates were melded into flesh to try and get it off him, allowed his eyes to focus on the movement. 

But just like with Brock’s eyelids, Winter didn’t give it much thought. 

Winter whined softly to himself as his fingertips caught the protruding metal ridge and tried to pull it from his body. He hated the way it felt on his body, too heavy to carry and causing more and more feelings in his body he couldn’t understand properly. He stayed like that, twisting and curling his wet hair around his fingers as he tried to pull the metal from his body. 

But soon enough, Winter felt himself being watched. He lifted his gaze from his lap to look instead at Brock’s face, blinking in uncertainty at the way hazy, dark eyes stared back at him.

“Brock…” Winter croaked out. He pulled his hand from under his shirt and moved to lean on the bed to get closer. Brock flinched away. 

Brock’s expression quickly turned exhausted as his mouth opened and closed silently, as if he were trying to get words out but didn’t know how to. His eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes took on a look that Winter had come to learn usually meant confusion in the other person. 

Maybe Brock was just trying to remember where he was and what had happened, Winter considered, so he waved his hands at himself hastily, hoping it would jog Brock’s memory. “Winter, Brock. Winter. ...At… At  _ home _ .” 

Brock’s expression quickly donned a frown. His eyes darted around the room, his head remaining still, panic growing in his face. His eyes locked onto the clipboard and pen hanging from the head of his hospital gurney. With all the effort he had inside of him, he cocked his head towards it and hoped that Winter would understand.

Winter hadn’t been HYDRA’s favourite soldier for nothing. In next to no time, he’d understood the unspoken request and retrieved the pen and clipboard. He turned the pages upside down so that all of the medical information was hidden and only a blank page remained. He held them out to Brock, but Brock didn’t take them; he only laid where he was, his fingers twitching as he tried so hard to reach out and take the items, only to be met with failure. 

But Winter understood. It was that damn electricity, the same thing that would happen to him when they’d turned the voltage up too high and scrambled his brains. Winter understood, and with all the patience and tenderness of a saint, he gently wrapped the pen up in Brock’s fingers and held the clipboard down for Brock to scribble against.

Brock’s scribbles were nothing but disconnected lines. Winter didn’t get it, and the whimper he gave in response had Brock flinching away again, like he was sure he’d done something wrong. 

Winter was crestfallen. But at the same time, he got it. He understood. He  _ related _ . Brock didn’t remember who Winter was. To Brock, Winter was probably the same, terrifying monster HYDRA had always treated him as. It was no wonder Brock looked so uncomfortable, being left alone in a room with him while he was so vulnerable and helpless. 

But Winter knew from firsthand experience just how confusing and terrifying it was to not be able to remember. And it wasn’t Brock’s fault. Simmons had already sat down with him and explained that there was a good chance Brock wouldn’t remember who he was - not with the electricity, definitely not with the gunshot wounds. 

The only thing that stopped Winter from crying was the fact that  _ he understood completely _ . He understood all too well what it was like to have no memory of someone, only to be expected to  _ remember everything _ , and Winter would never be able to be upset with Brock for forgetting who he was.

But Winter… didn’t know how to help Brock through this, didn’t know what to do or say to make him comfortable because  _ Brock had always looked after him _ . 

Winter cocked his head to the side. He took a deep breath, trying to reflect on everything he had learnt from Brock and Steve over time. Finally, once he had decided the best thing to say, he nodded. “You call me Winter. We are boyfriends.” 

Brock’s eyes wandered up and down Winter’s body. Brock’s throat tightened with a visible swallow. Winter felt uneasy now; what if Brock was judging him? What if Brock didn’t want him anymore? But Winter stayed still and let Brock scribble against the paper again, but just like it had before, nothing but scribbles came out. 

Winter knew Brock well, though. He had learned to anticipate Brock’s reactions and thought patterns from his behaviour, so he said the only thing he was sure Brock could have asked.

“Yes.” Winter didn’t talk much. He’d never really felt comfortable  _ to  _ talk more than necessary. But here and now, he feared greatly the idea of messing up. “Boyfriends.” 

Brock fell silent for a while after that. Neither of them moved or said anything until Brock started coughing. Winter licked his lips, a nervous tick he still didn’t even notice that he did. From there, Brock’s eyes squeezed shut tight, and he somehow got his head to the side with a loud groan as the bandages wrapped tightly around his head rubbed against his scalp. He flinched again when Winter reached out to grab him, truly not sure if he could trust what he was being told and if he really  _ did  _ know this strange man after all.

“Hurting, Brock?” Winter didn’t wait for a response; he reached out and adjusted the pillows beneath Brock’s head, his fingers feather-light as they danced against Brock’s head to check the bandages. He frowned at the blood spotting through them already. 

Brock whimpered when the bandages were unwrapped from his head, the pain excruciating even with the morphine drip in his wrist. He kept his eyes scrunched tight at the fresh bandage being wrapped around instead, his teeth grit as he tried so hard to pretend his skull didn’t feel like it was shifting beneath Winter’s gentle touch. 

Winter leaned down to kiss Brock’s forehead once he had finished with the bandages. “Brock… I love you. I’m sorry I made you mad…” 

Brock couldn’t give any form of response – not just from lack of trying, but he literally could not  _ move _ . His fingers twitched uselessly by his sides, but no matter how hard he tried to roll himself away from Winter to lay on his side and stare out of the window, he just couldn’t move. He made a frightened sound.

“Brock…?” Winter could see the panic building on Brock’s face. He didn’t miss the tears welling in his eyes, and all he could do was get up, promise he’d be back, and go get Coulson to help. 

Winter waited outside the infirmary at Coulson’s request, Coulson not wanting Brock to feel crowded now that he knew the damage was most likely as they had expected it to be. So Winter waited like the good little soldier he was, trying not to think so much on everything and wait for Coulson’s return.

When Coulson returned, the news was dire. Brock’s brain had been damaged, and his motor skills were pretty much non-existent at this stage, and if he would ever be verbal again, it would not be any time soon.

“But the good news, James?” Coulson was smiling now, hoping that Winter would be able to see it for what it was. “He’s going to get a fresh start.” 

“A fresh start…?” Winter was sure he’d heard those words somewhere before, but he couldn’t recall their meaning. 

“Yes. The bullets have blown out the trauma, James, and with a bit of luck, the anxiety and depression will be gone with it. He doesn’t remember any of it, and that’s good because it means he can finally have a chance to get on with his life and be  _ happy -  _ he just needs to overcome  _ this  _ first, but once we can get him up and moving again, I’m sure he’s going to be much happier.” 

Winter didn’t understand. His tongue darted out once again to wet his lips. “...Like… I don’t remember stuff…?” 

“Yes, James. But he’s going to need a lot of help. He’s not going to be able to look after himself for a while, so he’s going to need help feeding and taking care of his needs. Can you do that for him?” 

Winter’s chest puffed with pride. He gave a firm nod, already resolved to look after Brock, just like Brock had always looked after him. “What do I do first?” 

“Maybe help him eat something first and then see what he needs,” Coulson suggested gently. 

“What to feed him?” 

“Something gentle; he hasn’t eaten for three weeks.” Coulson nudged Winter’s flesh arm with his elbow before he gave a cheerful, “Come on; I’ll teach you how to make sandwiches.” 

“Sandwiches? Not soup?” 

“If you want to give him soup, you can, but his stomach can still handle food that yours can’t, so you have to keep that in mind, James. He needs proper solids to stay healthy. That’s why you have your smoothies and supplements, or else you’ll get very sick.” 

Winter nodded. “Is sandwiches or soup better for him?” 

Coulson couldn’t help but give a chuckle, so pleased that Winter was taking this seriously. He didn’t have major concerns for Brock – not about him not being looked after, anyway, because from what Steve had already told him about Winter, Winter was – or had been, but appeared to still  _ be  _ – the biggest mother hen on the face of the planet. 

Brock was going to be okay, and Coulson  _ knew  _ that Winter was going to make sure of that.  

***

Brock was quiet. Too quiet, even for him. He’d said nothing, gave no protest and was nothing but agreeable as Winter’s tender hands were gentler than they’d ever been when sitting him up to rest his back against the fluffed pile of pillows Winter had prepared for him. His mouth opened and closed for the spoonfuls of soup Winter was giving him, his eyes never leaving Winter’s, but whatever Coulson had spoken to him about, well… 

Brock seemed to trust now that, in some way, they  _ did  _ know each other after all. 

Winter put the spoon down in the bowl so he could instead reach for the plate beside him and break off the smallest piece of bread roll he could. He dipped it into the soup, holding it there for a few moments, before pulling it out and offering it to Brock. Brock’s mouth opened, and his teeth took hold of it carefully, trying his best not to bite Winter’s fingers.

The feeling in Winter’s stomach he had learned to associate with the need to be fed rumbled loudly. He looked down at the bowl of soup, remembering that he always shared his food with Brock, and they’d never really eaten out of separate bowls before. 

But this was different.  _ Too  _ different, and Winter would never eat Brock’s food on him, no matter how badly he needed food. He allowed Brock to eat his food because Winter  _ liked  _ sharing with him. Brock had once been his handler, and Winter knew he had to submit. 

But this wasn’t the same. Brock’s food belonged to Brock only, and Winter would never let anyone eat it on him. 

Soup ran down Brock’s chin when he choked on the food. Winter’s stomach rumbled again as he reached out to wipe Brock’s chin clean with his fingers, just like Brock had always done for him. As much as Winter wanted to lick his fingers clean and taste the soup, he knew that he couldn’t; Brock had to be fed, and the soup was only allowed to go to Brock. 

Winter moved his soup-coated flesh fingers to Brock’s face, perhaps a little too quickly since Brock flinched away again. So Winter slowed his movements, and tenderly, he rubbed his fingertips against Brock’s lips, expecting them to part and allow his fingers inside.

Brock kept his mouth clamped shut, his eyes scared and pleading, as if he thought he was about to be dismembered by a madman. Winter pulled his hand away immediately, his eyes lowering as he thought back to his interactions with everyone to take guidance from the memories. 

In the end, all Winter could fathom to do was wipe his fingers clean on his shirt and then reach out to pat Brock’s head. Winter’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly, subconsciously knowing there was something he had to say, but just not sure what. 

Winter went back to feeding Brock, slow and careful and  _ gentle,  _ until Winter was sure that Brock had eaten enough, knowing how little Brock had always eaten. He pulled the bowl away and placed it on the table beside the gurney. 

Brock’s eyes followed the bowl, pleading. Winter realised quickly. “More, Brock?” 

The tiniest nod of Brock’s head had Winter bringing the bowl back and feeding him. Brock was eating much more than Winter had anticipated, but Winter couldn’t think too much on it because Simmons came in to check on Brock.

“Hello!” Simmons was cheerful, just like she always was. She adored the tiny smile Winter afforded her, but what she really liked seeing was the shy smile on Brock’s face, and the subtle red tint on his cheeks - more emotion out of him already than they’d ever really been able to draw from him on their own. “How do you feel, Rumlow? Are you sore?” 

Brock felt Winter grabbing his hand and squeezing it. His eyes darted to the side to look at Winter, and even with his mind a mess of racing thoughts of feelings, he recognised concern in Winter’s expression. He felt his stomach lurch at the thought that maybe Winter really  _ did  _ care about him enough to be worried if he was hurting or not. 

Simmons came to the bed to administer more morphine at the tiny nod she received. Her smile was still bright, happy and outgoing as she picked up her chart to go over her notes. She started and gave a frown at the sloppy scribbles. 

“What happened to my chart?” Simmons showed Winter the paper, a puzzled frown on her face. 

Winter’s hand tightened around Brock’s as he murmured, “Brock… can’t talk. Tried to write.” 

Simmons gave a sad, gentle smile. “Bucky, please don’t write on top of my notes, okay? I’ll get you some more paper, but I don’t think it’s good for him to be trying to write just yet. Okay? He needs rest and recovery.” 

Winter nodded. He fell silent for a few moments before he reached out and tugged at Simmons’ sleeve. “Brock… will talk again…?” 

“Hopefully with time, but not overnight, Bucky.” 

Once again, Winter nodded. He sat back in his chair, seemingly satisfied with the answer, before he leant forward again to tug at her and say, “Brock not remember - Brock doesn’t remember. He will…?” 

“Oh, Bucky…” Simmons put her hand on Winter’s flesh shoulder and squeezed before she bent down to wrap her arm around him and hug. “...I… Maybe not, Bucky…” 

“He will… still love me…? He’s scared…” 

“He just needs time to feel comfortable and trust that we aren’t going to hurt him, and that we are who we say we are,” Simmons murmured, careful to keep her voice low so Brock couldn’t overhear. “I’m sure it’s not  _ you  _ he’s afraid of - he’s scared of what he can’t  _ remember _ .” 

Winter nodded. “I understand.” 

Simmons smiled at him again. She rubbed his back affectionately. “Good boy. You just have to take good care of him and I’m sure he’ll trust you.” 

“He will fall in love with me again…?” 

“Umm…” Simmons wasn’t sure how to respond. She could tell him the truth and say that there was no guarantee Brock would love him again. Or she could fabricate things gently and promise that Brock just needed time. But Winter… needed his own assurances to get through this, so tenderly, she smiled and whispered, “Who  _ wouldn’t  _ fall in love with you, Bucky? You’re so cute and sweet and adorable. Anyone would fall in love with you.” 

Winter lifted his gaze to meet Simmons. With all the seriousness he was capable of, he asked a genuine question. “Fitz is in love with me…?” 

Simmons choked on a laugh. “No, no! That’s not what I mean! Why did you think I was talking about him when I said anyone?” 

“Oh.” Winter left it at that, either unwilling or unable to go any deeper into the conversation. He changed the subject again. “Brock is eating too much.” 

“Well, that’s a very good thing, then, Bucky,” Simmons promised. “He’s eating because he  _ wants  _ to and he  _ feels  _ hungry. That’s very good. It means the depression and the anxiety might not be there now.” 

Winter nodded. “How to… How to bath him?” 

“Oh, no, no. No baths just yet, okay? We don’t want his head to get wet, or to be moving him so much like that. It’s only sponge baths for now, alright? I’ll show you how to do that tonight.” 

Winter was satisfied with the answer. “And… And how to take care of him? What to do with him? Will he be bored?” 

Simmons reached into her pocket and withdrew an iPod. “This is called an audiobook, Bucky. I read your favourite book and recorded it, so you can listen to it whenever you like. You can play this for him so he has something to listen to, or you can read to him, talk to him, whatever you want to do as long as you aren’t taking him out of bed or making him exert too much energy. Coulson is going to bring in a TV today for you both to watch. Okay?” 

Winter accepted the iPod tenderly. He turned it around in his hands, scrutinising it before he gave a nod and said, “Show me.” 

Simmons showed Winter how the iPod worked, and once they were both satisfied, Simmons did her checkup of Brock before leaving to give them privacy. Brock’s eyes remained on Winter the entire time, watching his every movement to try and get a feel for the person he was. 

But by the time Winter got sleepy, put one knee on the edge of the gurney and silently begged to be allowed up onto it, Brock couldn’t help but think that maybe… There  _ had  _ been a reason he had apparently been in love with Winter, after all. 


	28. Chapter 28

 

“Her name is Stumpy and Steve said I could have her.” Winter held his thrashing cat against his chest, a goofy smile on his face as he stared at Brock, oblivious to the fright on his face as he eyed the cat warily, like he expected for her to get free of Winter’s hold and put a knife to his throat any second now. 

Winter kept Stumpy in his arms as he crossed their bedroom to put his hand on the desk. “And this is our desk that was here when we moved in. And the wardrobe. The window was already in the plane, too.” 

Brock laid on what he’d been excitedly informed just moments before was their bed. He couldn’t quite follow the sudden excitement and need to explain everything about the room, but Winter looked happy, and Brock was content with that; it was rather soothing with all of the pain and confusion in his mind and body. 

“That crack in the floor was from me, Brock. And our clothes are in the… the… костюмер. That’s our TV. And that’s our…” Winter’s head cocked to the side as he tried to find the word he needed, but it didn’t come to him. He shook his head and moved on to the next item. 

Winter would have kept going if Steve hadn’t come into the bedroom. Instead, he stopped and hurried to Steve so he could throw his body against Steve’s and feel himself being wrapped in strong arms. 

Steve, who had been standing on the other side of the door listening in, chuckled as he held tight to Winter. “Bucky, what are you doing?” 

“I am telling Brock what everything is so he doesn’t get scared,” Winter explained. His expression held such childish innocence as he looked up at Steve, Steve couldn’t help but chuckle and kiss the top of his head. 

“Buck, I’m sure he -” 

Winter shook his head. “- No, Steve. It’s  _ scary _ .” 

Well, Steve couldn’t argue with that because he didn’t  _ know _ . Instead, he just held on tighter, kissing the top of his head with all the tenderness he had inside of him until Winter had pulled away and moved to lay on the bed with Brock again. 

Steve could barely believe what he was seeing. Winter, who had been so broken, so… So  _ empty,  _ full of life, talking, ensuring that he was taking care of Brock in every way he could, no matter how small. Winter, who had barely spoken, who a conversation could never be held with because he just couldn’t find it in him to speak… 

Here Winter was, talking nonstop to Brock, murmuring anything and everything to cross his mind as he laid there, wrapped protectively around him and running his hand through his hair without reprieve. 

Steve left silently, not daring to disturb the two. The way Brock stared at Winter with a smile on his face, his eyes staring into Winter’s face as if Winter was the damned  _ sun _ … 

Steve wasn’t sure he could handle it. 

Coulson’s office wasn’t too far from the bedrooms. Coulson himself was in there, and when Steve stepped inside and shut the door quietly behind him, Coulson looked up from his paperwork with a knowing look on his face.

“You’re going back already?” There was disappointment in his features, but Steve knew not to take it personally; Coulson still understood, even if he would never get enough of spending time with his hero. 

Steve nodded. He took the seat in front of Coulson’s desk, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. “It’s… hard, being here and seeing Bucky with him.” 

“Because James is spending so much time taking care of him?”

“Not really… It’s… not easy to look at Rumlow, and acknowledge that he’s still the same person who did all those things.” 

“He doesn’t remember, and he’s never going to. He did all those things, yes. But that’s a man who doesn’t know what he did, and doesn’t need to know. He’s smiling now. They  _ both  _ are.” 

Steve looked down at his lap. He shook his head before he looked back up and murmured, “I came here with every intention of talking him into coming back with me… But now he’s never going to leave Rumlow.” 

“That’s not a bad thing entirely,” Coulson promised. “What’s happened has woken James’ mind up. He’s more human than we’ve actually really ever seen him be. It’s like caring for Rumlow has made something in his brain click.” 

“It’s because he used to care for me. It’s the only real thing he’s had to bring him out of his shell.” 

“You should be happy it’s helping him. We think he’s genuinely happy taking care of him. He’s  _ speaking  _ to us. You know, not in his choppy, broken and cut-off sentences. He’s talking properly - he’s  _ having conversations with us now _ .” 

Steve frowned. “Rumlow… What’s happened to Rumlow is unfortunate… But it doesn’t change what he’s done in the past.” 

“Nothing ever will. But if you give this man a chance, he might be nothing like the Rumlow you knew. People make hard calls when it comes to the person they are. They go through things… Things that change them, influence them… Some people use those experiences to become the best person they can be, but… Sometimes, they go the opposite way. He made a hard call… Give up every chance he had to be a better person and have a better life. He chose the wrong side. But there was still something inside of him holding onto what little  good he was capable of that he clung to and decided he needed to change. I’m interested in seeing what this man chooses without that kind of influence behind him.” 

“You really think he can change?” Steve couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

Coulson smiled. “Certainly he can. Truthfully, I can’t see him wanting to go out committing mass murders with the way James is doting on him. He’s been awake two weeks and they’re already looking at each other like love-struck teens. I’d be surprised  _ if  _ he wanted to still commit genocide.” 

“I don’t know…” 

“I think James knows. I’m confident there was a reason he’s stuck by Rumlow all this way. Even if you don’t trust Rumlow, trust James. He’s gone through too much to have his judgement askew.” 

Steve wasn’t convinced, but if there was just one person in the world he trusted, it was Bucky. 

***

When Steve returned to Winter and Brock’s room, the first thing he did was murmur, “Bucky, can you please go and get Simmons to help you make us some lunch?” 

Winter left after placing a kiss on Brock’s forehead. Steve waited until they were alone before he leant against the doorframe and crossed his arms against his chest. He could see the nervousness on Brock’s face at his stern expression, but no matter how much he knew that the man laying helplessly before him truly didn’t deserve it, he couldn’t soften his expression. 

But no matter the emotions inside of Steve that felt as if they were ripping him apart, he didn’t find it in him to say the words truly on his mind. 

“For some reason I’m  _ never  _ going to understand, he loves you.” Steve shook his head, as if the thought was too much to consider. “He loves you, and all I’ve ever wanted for him was the best. Even if it means I’m the one who has to hurt for it.” 

Brock’s nervousness grew, and Steve was sure that if he could do more than a bit of subtle twitching at the fingertips, he might have tensed his body into a ball. “...” 

“I took time off work to come here and spend time with him,” Steve continued. “To see if he was ready to come back with me, or if he needed to stay here longer. I think he could have come back with me… Stayed in the apartment, read some books while I was gone… But now there’s no hope of getting him to leave - not without  _ you _ .” 

Brock didn’t understand, and he knew there was no way that he could voice that. He didn’t know what was going on, what had happened for him to be like this, or what he could possibly have done to make this person dislike him so much. 

But once again, there was no way for him to express himself. 

A single tear rolled down Steve’s cheek, and still, his expression didn’t soften. “So here I am, going to have to leave him  _ again  _ because I know how badly he wants to take care of you…” 

If Brock was capable, he’d ask questions. He’d ask what had happened to him for him to be like this, why Winter never seemed to leave his side, and what the relationship was between the three of them for this strange blond to be so upset at what he was saying. 

But Brock could do nothing but lay there and frown, wishing he could understand things better. 

“He  _ has  _ to take care of you, even if he doesn’t understand why…” Steve continued, his voice choked from swallowing back so much hurt. “It’s in his nature - nurturing, and - and… And just being a mother hen… He probably doesn’t even realise, but that’s who he is, and I just… I just hoped he was ready to come home with me…” 

Brock’s thoughts were jumbled, but he was sure that he was wondering why the man didn’t just take Winter with him if it hurt him that much to leave him here. 

But Steve, who knew the situation far better than anyone, knew what the best thing for Bucky was, even if it meant having to hurt himself. Bucky, who had been through hell and only wanted to be gentle and  _ loved,  _ who wanted nothing more than to be  _ able to love,  _ would never be able to leave the only stability he had known for twenty years - not until Brock could take care of himself and not need to be cared for. Steve could try, but Bucky would never Brock, not when Bucky could recognise that the same person who had cared for  _ him  _ now needed to be cared for himself. It wasn’t Bucky’s nature, and nothing HYDRA had done had ever been able to erase that part of his nature. 

“I want nothing more than to be able to take Bucky home and give him everything he needs…” Steve reached up to wipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, “...but he’s made a home for himself here. And that’s  _ okay  _ \- really it is! - but his home was supposed to be with  _ me _ …” 

Brock was listening to every word, but the sudden pounding in his head had him flinching and whimpering. He tried to reach up and touch his head, try and soothe away the pain, but he couldn’t move his arms; it was nothing more than wishful thinking. 

Steve really didn’t know why he was moving to Brock’s side and taking the syringe from the bedside table to administer pain medication. He supposed it was what it had been for a long time now; reluctant acceptance that Bucky had chosen a new life for himself, and Steve wasn’t going to be such a huge part of it this time. 

But it would be okay; as long as Steve could still hold Bucky and take care of him, Steve would wait forever for Bucky to come back to him.

“I swear if you hurt him…” Steve didn’t know why he’d even said it because honestly… What harm could Brock do to  _ anything  _ while in this state? “He means the world to me, and I swear to god, Rumlow, if you -” 

Steve cut himself off when voices floated through the comm in his ear. He turned his attention to it, recognising Winter’s voice immediately, and Fitz’s soft stutters in the background. He cocked his head to the side, honing in on the way Winter was requesting Fitz’s help, and Fitz’s murmurs of if Brock was doing okay or not. 

Fitz hadn’t been to see Brock, Steve knew. There were whispers about it all throughout the team, whispers wondering whether Fitz was truly coping with everything, or if he was slipping away from them, too. He’d been distant from his team, watching from afar and avoiding everyone - but from the sounds of it, Winter had purposely sought Fitz out, and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Steve forgot all about Brock as he sat and listened, knowing he really shouldn’t be, but listening close to everything that Fitz was telling Winter, about how sad and lonely and fearful he’d been ever since their betrayal. What truly surprised Steve, however, was the fact that Winter was coherent when he replied and said he felt the same way, that he was fearful he’d never really learn what happiness was, but at the same time, he loved being there with his cat and everyone, and even if he could only keep crying instead of smiling, he wouldn’t mind too much as long as he still got to spend time with everyone. 

And that was when Steve knew, there was nothing he could do better for Bucky than to leave him here where he had learned he was very much loved. 


	29. Chapter 29

One of Winter’s favourite pastimes was sitting on the sofa in the  _ socialising room _ , Stumpy in his arms as he ever-so-gently brushed her fur with the brush glove Simmons had given him some months ago. He liked that Stumpy had given up on trying to escape his arms and instead now stayed reproachfully still and grumbled her discontentment; it meant that he didn’t have to worry about accidentally hurting her whenever he tried to hold her still in his arms. 

Winter sat quietly, content and happy as the TV played before him. He wasn’t interested in the sitcom, the humour too far out of his understanding to be able to understand and laugh at, but somebody else had been watching it when he’d come in with Stumpy earlier, so he left it running. 

Besides, Winter was more interested in all the chatter on the other side of the room, behind the sofa and centred around the large table at the back where everyone had gathered together with money and playing cards. 

Winter had brushed Stumpy’s fur free of all its mats and tangles, and he remembered Steve telling him he shouldn’t brush it any further than that. But Brock was busy with the physiotherapist in their bedroom, and the physio had growled at him before that he only got in the way, so Winter left and stayed away when the physio visited. 

But there was still an hour or so left of the session, Winter knew, and he still wasn’t sure of what he could do with himself while he waited. 

“Aww, man, I’m out then; got no more money left.” 

Winter turned to look over the back of the couch at the table. He cocked his head to the side as he watched them, seeing the happiness on their faces, hearing the fun they were having in every laugh that sounded. 

Winter got to his feet and, with Stumpy still in his arms, he moved to stand by the table and see for himself what they were doing. Piles of coin in the middle of the table, a little of it in front of most of them, and Coulson shuffling cards as he smiled up at Winter welcomingly. 

“What are you doing?” Winter tightened his hold on Stumpy now that she was hissing and scratching at his friends. He nodded when Coulson told him they were playing Poker. A part of his mind stirred at that, faint recollections that told him he may have played this in his past, and he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I want to play.” 

It was far too late to let him join - everyone had almost exhausted their money supplies playing - but when Winter had decided something for himself, no one could ever say no to him. May slipped him five dollars with a wink and smile, and while Coulson dealt everyone their hands, Trip explained the rules and how to play to Winter. 

Winter let Stumpy go, not minding that she ran and hid under the sofa; he would collect her later when he was going back to his room. For now, he was enjoying the way Skye’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders good naturedly as she helped him decide what to do with his cards. 

But Winter, who kept feeling the pull at the strings of his mind, knew that something wasn’t right. He pondered on it for a while, putting down a few of his cards before he realised what he was missing. 

“My tablet…” Winter frowned as he realised he’d left his recently-gifted tablet in his bedroom. 

“What do you want it for?” Simmons asked gently, seeing the distress in his features. 

“Need to play with Steve. We always played together,” Winter explained. He looked so sad at the thought of not being allowed to gather his tablet until the physio was gone, and Coulson didn’t have the heart to let him sit like that. 

“Here, you can talk to him off my phone.” Coulson reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone and pass it to Winter. 

Winter was beaming now, his eyes sparkling as he asked hopefully, “Skype?”

“No, I don’t have Skype on that phone, but you can still video call him,” Coulson promised. He watched, pleased as May reached over and showed Winter how to video call Steve. 

A soft sigh of relief escaped Winter when Steve’s face showed up on the screen just moments later. “Steve… We’ll play Poker together?” 

“Buck, I’m kind of busy right now,” Steve explained gently. “I’ve got a lot of reports I have to have written up by toni - hey, don’t give me that look.” 

Winter made an extra effort with his kicked puppy expression, having since learnt that it was key to getting what he wanted whenever Steve told him no. And of course, it worked once again when Steve gave a dramatic sigh and promised for just five minutes.

And five minutes it was, but it was still the best five minutes of Winter resting the phone against his chest so Steve could see his cards and tell him what to do. 

And naturally, when Steve had to go, Winter sat quietly for a few minutes more, contemplating whether or not what was on his mind was something he was allowed to share after all. 

“I want…” Winter’s shoulders tightened, and his head bowed. A single, full-body shudder was visible to everyone around as he tried to remind himself that he was  _ allowed  _ to ask for things, and  _ never  _ had  _ anyone  _ here harmed or upset him for asking for things. “...I want… to see Steve…” 

Without missing a beat, Coulson announced, “We’ll be over that way again in a week or so. We were going to have a few weeks anyway, so you can stay with Steve while we’re there if you’d like.” 

Winter nodded, frowning at his lap. When he felt someone rub his flesh arm, he finally looked up, trusting now that what he had asked for wasn’t too much, and even if it had felt like he’d been out of line, he wasn’t in trouble or hadn’t made them upset with him. 

That knowledge was what made it easier for Winter to relax and enjoy the game, even without Steve playing with him. He was still a little quiet, talking mostly only when spoken to, or when it was to announce something about the game. 

But when they’d been sitting in silence for a few moments, everyone focused on their cards as they tried hard to stay in for the next round, Winter couldn’t help but laugh raucously when Stumpy had snuck up and attacked Mack’s pant legs, earning a shout of surprise and a ten-foot jump in response. 

Winter was still laughing when he put his cards face-down onto the table and went to fetch Stumpy. His eyes were shining bright, his expression so happy and full of laughter and  _ life  _ that he suddenly looked so much younger, his eyes uncrinkled and his jaw no longer taut, and for the first time since he’d been with Coulson’s crew, he reflected the happy, young man they had only ever seen in Captain America documentaries. 

There was no scolding or cold shouldering from any of the others, and Winter knew that better than any of them. There was no punishment or disdain or disapproval for what his cat had done - if anything, it had only made the room almost shatter under all of the laughter, Mack’s included. 

Winter knew that, had this still been HYDRA, he’d have been abused and punished terribly - but here, with his friends, he was allowed to laugh and request things and  _ be happy _ . 

So when the next round was finished, and May had the winning cards, a part of Winter he had forgotten existed found the courage to reach out and scoop all of the coins from the middle of the table towards him and, with a silly grin, announce, “I win!”, there was no punishment or hatred or pain; there was only more laughter, soft teases that of  _ course  _ Winter was going to win when he had more money left than they’d all  _ started with,  _ but there was no hurt or sadness or fear when Winter put all the coins back in the middle; there was only shining eyes and the pull at his jaw from how much he was smiling, and the unusual, excited erection in his pants he had yet to notice. 

And of course, when Winter  _ did  _ end up winning, and someone asked him what he was going to do with all his winnings, he cocked his head to the side thoughtfully before teasing, “Haircut”, and dividing all of his winnings equally amongst everyone until he had no winnings left himself. 

But that was okay because the fun he’d just had was all the winnings he needed. 

***

Brock was awake and sitting up in bed when Winter came in to see him. He smiled brightly, his world always lighting up the second he caught sight of the one person he always wanted to see. 

Winter immediately went to Brock’s side. His heart hammered with excitement against his ribs, and once he had sat down on the bed and pulled Brock into his arms, his heart skipped a beat at the contentment that overwhelmed him. 

“Brock…” Winter gave a calm sigh before he kissed Brock’s temple. He reached around to Brock’s behind, fluffing up the pillows he had been leaning against. Brock had been sitting, and that was always a good sign, but Winter was sure the physio would have rearranged the pillows upon leaving. “Are you okay?” 

Brock’s smile never wavered as he nodded. His eyes stayed locked on Winter’s, his mouth going dry as he felt his cheeks reddening from how shy he felt around Winter. His lips parted, and he made some soft sounds until finally, he’d gotten out, “Go toilet.” 

Winter didn’t hesitate to get back to his feet and lift Brock from the bed. Instead of carrying him to the bathroom, he turned to his side and used one arm to hold Brock around by the waist, and using the other to guide Brock’s arm around his shoulders and hold it there. 

Winter shuddered nervously as Brock’s body rubbed against his metal arm. He hoped the metal couldn’t be felt through his gloves and long sleeves; if Brock saw what he was and got scared away, he was sure he would die of heartbreak. 

But if Brock could feel any difference, it wasn’t showing; he was too focused on trying to get his feet to move, his face scrunched up in concentration as he tried his best to move every required muscle group. 

The walk to the bathroom was slow, so very slow for just how close by it really was. But Winter didn’t mind; even when Brock could only manage a single step in the span of two minutes, Winter stood patiently, supporting Brock’s body and waiting for the next step. And eventually, that patience paid off, and they found themselves back in bed, Brock in Winter’s arms as the two laid on their sides and just stared into each other’s eyes. 

Winter’s gloved metal hand stroked slowly through Brock’s hair, his whole body lax as he fought against the temptation of kissing Brock silly. But Winter knew he wasn’t allowed to kiss Brock without asking; Steve had told him so. 

So instead, Winter moved closer, their chests brushing together as he whispered, “Can I kiss you…?” 

Brock’s cheeks were burning furiously now as he gave a small, shy nod. He held still when Winter moved in on him, and when he felt lips on his own, he parted his mouth to return the kiss.

Winter’s eyes closed as he gave a soft moan. He moved in even closer, until he’d rolled Brock partially onto his back and was leaning over him. He moved his hand down from Brock’s hair to his cheek, cupping his face and feeling the way his pants were tightening. 

It was becoming an every day thing for Winter to experience arousal, and upon Simmons’ reassurances that it was perfectly normal for him to do so and it just meant he was recovering in a lot of ways, it had become something he was learning to embrace. So it was only natural for him to follow his body’s natural urges to rest his arousal against Brock’s and rub. 

Somewhere in the haze of lust that was becoming Winter’s mind, he knew he wasn’t allowed to touch Brock without his permission, and the last time he had tried, Brock had been mad at him. But that had been the old Brock who had his own issues with erections, and this new Brock instead seemed to be enjoying the rubbing very much if his own moans and growing erection meant anything. 

Winter rubbed faster, his breathing growing hotter and heavier with each passing moment as he soaked in all the warmth and love he could feel, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to be like this with Brock, and he needed more. 

But he knew he couldn’t have sex with Brock just yet - he’d asked Simmons once if he was allowed to have sex with him and she’d said no, not while his brain is still recovering because he might not know what he wants just yet. 

Well, Winter knew he needed more, and while he would never hurt Brock like that, he did the next best thing he could think of. He pulled his gloves from his hands and his long-sleeve shirt was quick to follow. He did the same for Brock, stripping his upper body until there was nothing in the way for him to lay down on top and soak in the skin-on-skin contact like a wet sponge in a pool. 

Winter moaned, long and loud at the warmth, his eyes wide and unseeing as all he focused on was being so close to Brock. He rocked his hips again, Brock’s softer moan following. In moments Brock gave a loud cry as his body tensed beneath Winter’s, the front of his pants becoming damp enough for Winter to feel it through his own fabric. 

Winter groaned and followed suit, pushed to his orgasm by Brock’s own. He grasped the bed sheets with both hands, squeezing hard enough to tear them as he spilled inside his own pants. 

It was the first time Winter had ever really seen Brock orgasm so easily. In fact, he’d never really seen Brock get hard at all until the incident. He had enough of a grasp on reality to understand that what had happened had blown out the things that made intimacy hard for Brock, and the knowledge of this left Winter hard once again at the idea that once Brock was better, he might want sex with Winter every day. 

But Brock was too tired and sweaty and sated and  _ not hard  _ for Winter to rub against him again, and so Winter ignored his problem, choosing instead to lay back beside Brock and just hold him tight in both arms. 

“Good arm. Like.” 

Winter’s eyes snapped open from where he’d started dozing off when he felt fingers sliding down his metal arm. He flinched and pulled away, rolling onto his back so he could trap it beneath his body and hide it from Brock’s view. He’d forgotten all about hiding it because he’d gotten so horny, and now, what if Brock decided he hated him? 

Winter looked to the side, looking anywhere but at Brock. “...” 

Brock rolled himself over to smile at Winter. He slowly raised his hand to touch the metal plating melded into flesh at Winter’s shoulder. “Like arm. Good arm.”

Winter gave an uncomfortable whimper. He hated his metal arm, felt so self-conscious and  _ ashamed  _ of it, and if he could, he’d have torn it off and thrown it somewhere he would never have to see it again. 

But Winter had tried and tried and  _ tried  _ to separate it from his body. The claw marks in his flesh surrounding the metal plating of his shoulder showed that. He’d spent so much time sitting in the dark, clawing at his own flesh and  _ body  _ to try and get it off, but it had never worked. 

Winter couldn’t be loved while he still had that monstrosity on his body. That was why he’d taken to long-sleeves and, as of recently, gloves, to hide it. To stop people he cared about running away screaming. 

But he’d fucked up. He’d let himself be seen, be vulnerable to Brock, and now, he was terrified of what that meant. 

Brock’s fingers stroked again, slow and gently. He smiled at Winter, unable to decipher the fear and uneasiness on Winter’s face. “Pretty arm. Good.” 

Winter cracked open an eyelid to peer nervously at Brock. “Pretty…?” 

“Yes. Pretty. Like.” 

“...You like it…?” Winter’s mouth was going dry, his heart hammering again, and this time not in a good way. 

“Yes.” Brock moved closer so he could nestle against Winter’s body and sigh contentedly. “Show?” 

Hesitantly, against his better judgement, Winter uncurled his metal arm from beneath him and raised it into the air. He was aware of his body shaking now, terrified of what was to come - so when Brock only smiled and requested to hold his hand, Winter felt his breath catch in his throat.

Brock’s hand was so much smaller when it was clasped in Winter’s metal monstrosity, but Brock only sighed happily and closed his eyes, ready for sleep. Winter didn’t let go, especially not when Brock’s thumb snaked out of Winter’s hold to rub little circles into Winter’s hand. 

Brock fell asleep easily, sated and content and safe and  _ happy _ . But Winter could only stare in confusion down at their hands, still entwined. And that was how he learnt that he didn’t have to be ashamed of himself because metal arm or no, people still loved him for  _ him,  _ and not for what had been done to him. 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. The last chapter. I have to admit I was terrified I wasn't going to be able to get this finished with how uprooted my life became back in July, making it hard to get updates out. But I love this fic so much, even homeless I was still trying my best to get this written and finished. 
> 
> All I can say is that without everyone's support, I don't know if I could have finished this, as much as I would have wanted to. Long story short, with everything that was happening in my life, and now where my life currently is, there is such a juxtaposition that I am happy enough and busy enough that I just don't have much time to write now. 
> 
> But I pushed, because I wanted so badly to see this story through to the end, and I just can't thank everyone who stayed for the ride enough. This is as much for you guys as it is for me. I can only hope this is the kind of ending that people can be satisfied with.

There was an excitement in Winter he wasn’t sure he’d ever really felt before. He felt like his stomach and chest were bubbly, and if they didn’t hurry up and get to Steve’s apartment, he would explode into a million tiny pieces. 

They technically were at Steve’s apartment  _ building,  _ but of course, even with Fitz trailing behind them, they couldn’t go fast with Brock’s legs holding him back. Winter wanted to pick Brock up and carry him the rest of the way, but that patient part of him knew he couldn’t, and that until Brock was too physically drained to try any longer, he would have to let Brock keep his independence as much as possible. 

They made it to Steve’s apartment soon enough, where Steve was waiting by the door for them. The first thing they did was get Brock inside and lay him down on the sofa so he could catch his breath and recover from the journey, and once that was done, Steve went about getting everyone drinks. 

Fitz wasn’t in a good way, Steve quickly learned. He was in a depressive episode, mumbling about his hands and how useless they had become. He dropped the can of soda Steve had offered him all over the sofa and floor, staining the fabric several shades darker than they had started out as. Steve was sure there were tears in his eyes when Fitz quietly excused himself to clean up. 

Steve looked to Winter once Fitz was out of the room. Quietly, he murmured, “Is he okay, Buck?” 

Winter shrugged. “Been sad… I asked him to come because he… He…” 

“He just isn’t doing well?” Steve offered gently. He sighed when Winter nodded. “Coulson hasn’t said too much about him. Is it his hands?” 

Winter frowned. He cocked his head to the side before murmuring, “It’s lots of things but he made me promise not to tell anyone.” 

Steve chuckled. “You don’t have to tell me anything, Buck. Is he going to be okay?” 

Winter smiled bright as he nodded. “He bought me new books yesterday, Steve.” 

Steve was grateful for the friendships his Bucky had forged; from everything Coulson relayed to him, Fitz had become very close to Winter and Brock - possibly some sort of damaged goods exclusive club that no one else really understood but accepted without question. 

“How to say sorry to him, Steve? For hurting his wrist?” 

Steve was taken by surprise by the question, but at the same time, relieved; Winter knew he had to apologise, and it was so,  _ so  _ good that he was seeking help to do so. “Just tell him you’re sorry for hurting him, Buck.” 

Winter nodded. “Will tell him when he isn’t sad, Steve.” 

“You tell him whenever you’re ready. I’m not sure he’s in the right mental state for this conversation right now anyway, Buck.” 

And so of course, when Fitz returned with paper towel in hand, and a red face that looked to have shed some tears in private, Steve was gentle as he assured Fitz that he could clean it up and everything was okay. 

Fitz didn’t stay for long. Steve ended up taking him home when he fell into a breakdown at being unable to hold a pen without dropping it. 

Winter had promised he would be fine with Steve gone, and while Brock slept on the sofa, he looked around the apartment and familiarised himself with Steve’s living quarters. Searching through what Coulson had taught him were DVDs, Winter was surprised to have stumbled upon a large collection of Captain America DVDs. Winter took extreme care in extracting them from the cupboard and placing them tenderly on the coffee table like they would break beneath his fingertips at even the tiniest amount of pressure, waiting for Steve’s return. 

When Steve did return home, the first thing out of Winter’s mouth was a soft-spoken, almost nervous request to watch them.

“Of course we can watch them, Buck,” Steve promised. “How about tonight? We’ll turn all the lights off and I’ll make some popcorn and - maybe not popcorn; Rumlow will choke on it, and I don’t know if your stomach can handle it. But what about chocolate and ice cream?” 

Winter’s eyes sparkled as he nodded. “With… With  _ blankets _ ?” 

Steve didn’t miss the excitement in Winter’s voice. He smiled. “Sure, Buck. I’ll even warm the blankets up first.” 

Winter looked like a kid on Christmas Day, just coming down the stairs and seeing all the presents beneath the tree. Steve wasn’t surprised by the hug he was given; he only returned it just as tightly before he kissed Winter softly and took him into the kitchen to prepare lunch. 

“How have you been eating, Buck?” Steve poised the question as innocently as he could, but at the downwards dart of Winter’s eyes and the unconvincing way he murmured  _ fine  _ told Steve that what he had been hearing was indeed correct. “Are you sure?” 

“...” Winter’s hands fumbled together as his gaze went downwards again. He hesitated before mumbling, “I just don’t want to eat Brock’s food and leave him hungry…” 

“So Coulson  _ was  _ telling me the truth that you keep on not eating for a few days until you physically can’t move from hunger?” Steve remained gentle, patient, and when Winter gave a full-body fidget, he knew he was on to the truth already. “Buck… Buck, you have the serum. Our metabolisms  _ need  _ food. If we don’t eat, we’re going to get very sick very fast. I get hunger pains if I am just an hour late for lunch, Buck.” 

“But I don’t want Brock to be hungry,” Winter whispered. 

“He won’t be, Buck - not if you have a meal for yourself, too,” Steve promised. “Somebody told me that the girls have to keep bringing you meals or else you won’t eat anything. Is this true?” 

Winter wore a deep frown as he nodded slowly. “...” 

“Is it also true that you’re going hungry yourself most days?” 

“...” Another slow nod.

Steve reached out to clasp Winter’s shoulder and squeeze. He shook his head and smiled. “Well that isn’t going to happen here, Buck. Here, you’re going to eat four square meals a day. Okay?” 

“What about Brock?” 

“He will get three meals a day because he doesn’t need to eat as much as we do,” Steve reassured.

“But he will go hungry if I -” 

“- He won’t, because you both will be having your  _ own  _ meals to eat.” 

“We share, Steve.” 

“I know. And that’s fine. But no one is going to go hungry here. Okay?” 

Winter couldn’t help but smile back and nod. “Okay.” 

And with that, Winter helped Steve prepare their lunches, pleased to see that, true to Steve’s word, Brock was going to be well fed after all.

***

Brock kept dozing off through the movies, his head on Winter’s shoulder and his hand clasped securely in a metal one. Winter was fascinated by the movies, curled up against Steve’s side with Steve’s arm wrapped around him to hold him close. Sometimes Winter laughed. Sometimes he cried. Sometimes he reached out longingly to the TV with small, wounded sounds. 

But most importantly of all, he seemed to have recovered enough to stand watching himself fall from that train, and even to stand seeing the depiction of the man he couldn’t remember ever being. 

Winter nuzzled Steve’s cheek with his nose before he whispered, “Did you really save Bucky from HYDRA on your own?” 

“Yes.” Steve kissed Winter’s forehead, just above his eye. 

Winter’s lips curled into a grin. “You saved… You saved  _ me,  _ Steve…?” 

“Yes. And I would do it a thousand times more. I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Winter whispered back. 

They went back to a comfortable silence until Brock roused again, seemingly more coherent now after his fourth nap in as many minutes. He seemed to be watching the movie, Winter thought, but then his attention started wandering, something he had been told was normal and should get better with time and recovery. 

But Winter wasn’t expecting for Brock’s attention to fall onto his own arms, scarred and marred from decades of abuse and self-harm. He frowned at the faded scarring that ran from his wrists all the way down to his elbows on his left arm.

“Winter…” Brock lifted his head to look up at Winter. Carefully, he asked, “What happen me?” 

Winter, who was quickly becoming skilled in understanding Brock’s aphasia, wasn’t sure how to respond, because the question was so vague, Brock could have been asking about his arms or the attack. “Your arms?” 

Brock nodded. “Yes. Scarred.” 

Winter looked to Steve for reassurance, not sure what to say. He could be honest and tell Brock the truth, the terrible, dark, painful truth. Or he could say nothing, ignore the question and hope Brock would get distracted and forget he’d ever asked it. Or, he could tell him something that wasn’t the truth, but wasn’t painful either. 

In the end, Winter decided to blend together what he could into a combination of truth and fantasy. “They are… scars from helping me. From the bad place. Brock got hurt helping me, for being a good person. But it’s okay because Winter is free now. Winter’s happy. Brock is a good person.” 

Brock smiled, seemingly content with the fabrication. He started humming softly to himself now, listening to Steve talking to Bucky before he asked, “Why call Bucky?” 

“...” Winter closed his eyes, trying to hide the pain the question sparked. “...Steve… calls me Bucky. Like Brock calls me Winter.” 

“Winter not name?” 

“No.” 

Brock frowned. “Why call?” 

“Because Brock likes it, and I like what Brock likes.” 

“Want call something else?” 

“...” Winter thought long and hard about it. In a way, he liked Brock calling him Winter. It had a tone of comfort and safety attached to the name, but really, it just didn’t feel right to him. In a way, even  _ Bucky  _ didn’t feel right to him. Bucky was a dead man’s name, and Winter had had enough of being a ghost to want to carry that around with him, too. 

But what was there to call him? Coulson called him by his real name - a name he felt no attachment to, no true recognition as his own. He didn’t like James. It was too empty, too… Too… 

And then, it came to Winter. 

“Jamie.” Winter nodded in contentment at the feel of the name. “I like Jamie.” 

“Jamie…” Brock rolled the name off the tip of his tongue to see how it felt. He smiled, pleased with the new name. “Jamie. Nice. Like.” 

Steve gave a playful pout as he asked, “I still get to call you Bucky, though, right?” 

Winter nodded. “Only Steve. Because Steve would cry otherwise.” 

Steve snorted. He nudged Winter playfully in the side before he nodded his head at the TV. “Watch the movie, jerk; your ice cream will melt otherwise.” 

For the first time in so many decades, things finally felt right, and Winter would never know how to express that the tears he shed in that moment were a pure weight lifting from his body and allowing him to breathe once again. 


End file.
